BOG-LAND  STUDIES 


BOG-LAND    STUDIES 


BY 

J.    BARLOW 


THIRD   EDITION 


NEW  YORK 
DODD,   MEAD    AND    CO. 

149   AND    151    FIFTH   AVENUE 
1895 


TH'  OULD  MASTER 

Hi/  8V0A«j  Uvai  iro\\T)t>  iirl  yaiav 
Mouvox  t& 


2057864 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

TH'  OULD  MASTER       .              I 

WALLED  OUT:  OR,  ESCHATOLOGY  IN  A  BOG     .       .  43 

LAST  TIME  AT  M'GURK'S  : 

OR,  MICK  FLYNN  DE  SENECTUTE       ...  73 

BY  THE  BOG-HOLE 103 

PAST  PRAYING  FOR  :  OR,  THE  SOUPER'S  WIDOW       .  135 

MISS  HONOR'S  WEDDING 153 

A  CURLEW'S  CALL 


TH'  OULD  MASTER 


IT  mayn't  be  so  much  of  a  place  whin  ye  reckon 

by  land — Inish  Fay — 
Just  a  thrifle  o'  fields  and  a  bog  like ;  but  if  ye 

considher  the  say, 
Sure  we  've  lashins  an'  lavins  o'  that,  spreadin'  out 

and  away  like  a  floor 
To  Ratheen  at  the  end  of  our  bay,  that 's  as  far  as 

ye  '11  look  from  your  door, 
An'  that  far  ye'd  scarce  look  in  a  week  to  the 

west,  where  there  isn't,  I  'm  tould, 
One  dhry  step   'twixt  yer  fut   an'   the   States ; 

sartin  'tis  the  long  waves  do  come  rowled 


4  TH'  OULD  MASTER 

Same  as  if  they  'd  set  out  from  the  back  o'  beyant 

an'  was  thryin'  how  each 
Could  swell  up  to  the  sizeablest  bigness  afore  it 

lapt  o'er  on  the  beach. 
Ay,  we  've  plenty  enough  o'  the  say,  an'  good  luck 

to 't ;  I  don't  understand 
How  the  folk  keep  continted  at  all  that  be  settled 

far  up  on  the  land, 
Out  o'  reach  o'  the  tides ;  'tis  like  livin'  wid  never 

a  chance  to  be  spied, 
And  what  use  is  one's  life  widout  chances  ?    Ye  've 

always  a  chance  wid  the  tide  ; 
For  ye  never  can  tell  what  'twill  take  in  its  head 

to  sthrew  round  on  the  shore  ; 
Maybe  dhrift-wood,  or  grand  bits  o'  boards,  that 

comes  handy  for  splicin'  an  oar  ; 
Or  a  crab  skytin'  back  o'er  the  shine  o'  the  wet — 

sure,  whatever  ye  Ve  found, 
It 's  a  sort  o'   diversion  thim  whiles  when  ye  're 

starvin'  an'  sthreelin'  around. 


TH'  OULD  MASTER 


II 

I  'd  be  noways  denyin'  the  say 's  done  ill  turns 

on  us  now  and  agin  ; 
But  our  bit  of  an  Inish,  begorrah,  I  '11  stan'  by 

thro'  thick  an'  thro'  thin, 
For  the  pleasant  ould  times  we've  had  on  it  is 

more  than  I  '11  ever  forget, 
And  except  for  th'  ould  master's  misfortins,  belike 

we  'd  be  havin'  thim  yet. 
There  was  none  lived  continteder ;  he  in  the  Big 

House  that 's  screened  from  the  wind 
Up  the  hollow,  an'  ourselves  by  the  shore  wid  the 

bank  lanin'  over  behind, 
An'  the  say  washin'  up  t9  the  doors,  an'  the  sod 

runnin'  down  to  our  boats, 
Where  along  o'  the  weed-dhrifts  an'  shells  there  'd 

be  grazin'  most  whiles  for  the  goats  ; 


6  TH'  OULD  MASTER 

And  our  pratie-dhrills  yonder — ochone,  not  the 

heart-scalds  they  've  been  to  us  since, 
For  it 's  bare-fut  th'  ould  master  'd  ha'  walked  ere 

he  'd  ask  for  a  poor  body's  pince, 
If  so  happen — an'  ready  enough  'tis  to  happen — 

a  bad  saison  came. 
He  was  that  sort,  and  young  Misther  Denis,  God 

rest  of  his  soul,  was  the  same. 


Ill 

Yet  'twas  just  be  the   raison  of  him,  Misther 

Denis,  the  throuble  began. 
For  afore  ye  'd  believe  he  shot  up  from  a  slip  of  a 

boy  to  a  man  ; 
Not  his  match  in  the  counthry,  sez  we;  an'  th' 

ould  master  he  thought  that  the  lad 
Bet  creation,  because,  ye  percaive,  it  was  all  o'  the 
childher  he  had, 


TH'  OULD  MASTER  7 

An'  the  misthress  had  died  on  thim  both.     So 

'twas  rael  bad  luck  to  befall 
When  young  master  tuk  into  his  head  to  be  off 

and  away  from  us  all, 
An'  to  make  of  his  fortin  in  'Sthralia.     Och,  sure 

he'd  one  made  fit  an'  fine, 
But  some  money  they  owned,  I  Ve  heard  said,  had 

got  all  swallied  up  in  a  mine, 
An'  that  gave  him  the  notion  ;  an'  thin  there 's  the 

world  young  chaps  fancy  to  see. 
So   th'   ould   master  was  fairly   disthracted,  an' 

couldn't  abide  the  idee. 
And  he  done  all  he  could  to  pervint  of  his  goin' 

an'  coax  him  to  stay, 
For  he  got  him  the  natest  half-decker  that  ever 

was  sailed  in  our  bay, 
An'  for  huntin'  a  mare  that  'ud  frighten  the  Saints 

wid  the  leps  that  she  'd  lep, 
A  grand  baste — but  no  ha'porth  o'  use  ;   Misther 

Denis  he  wouldn't  be  kep', 


8  TH'  OULD  MASTER 

An'  the  sorra  a  thing  good  or  bad  'ud  persuade 

him  to  bide  here  contint, 
For  he  'd  clane  set  his  heart  upon  goin'.     An'  so 

one  fine  mornin'  he  wint. 


IV 

And  we  missed  him,  faith,  little  an'  big,  but  th' 

ould  master  he  missed  him  the  worst, 
It 's  a  full  ten  year  oulder  he  looked  from  that  day. 

Howsomedever,  at  first 
We  thried  puttin'  the  best  face  we  could  on  the 

matter,  an'  talkin'  a  dale 
Of  how  soon  he  'd  be  wid  us  agin  ;  an'  thin  letters 

'ud  come  by  the  mail 
Wid  discripshins  of  all  Misther  Denis  was  seein' 

an'  doin'  out  there, 
An'  that  cheered  him  up  finely ;   an'  whiles  he  'd 

step  down  where  the  most  of  us  were, 


TH'  OULD  MASTER  9 

When  we'd  sit  on  the  pier  afther  work,  an'  'ud 

read  us  out  bits  of  his  news 
From    Austhraly ;    an'    thin    we  'd    get   gabbin' 

together  like  say-gulls  an'  mews 
Whin   they're   fishin'  an'  fightin',  of  all  Misther 

Denis  'ud  do  out  of  han' 
Once  he  come  home  as  rich  as  a  Jew ;  the  good 

stock  that  he  'd  put  on  the  Ian', 
An'  the  fields  he  'd  be  dhrainin' ;  bedad,  we  'd  the 

whole  of  it  settled  an'  planned, 
To  the  names  o'  the  cows,  an'  which  side  o'  the 

yard  the  new  cart-shed  'ud  stand. 
Why,  one  night  young  Pat  Byrne  an'  Joe  Murphy 

they  set  to  an'  boxed  up  an'  down 
About  which  o'  thim  both'd  get  the  job  to  look 

afther  the  greyhounds  he  'd  own — 
For  we  knew  Misther  Denis  'd  be  sartin  to  keep 

an  odd  few  in  the  place — 
An'  th'  ould  master  seemed  rael  diverted,  an'  gave 

thim  a  shillin'  apiece. 


io  TH'  OULD  MASTER 


But  thin,  it  was   maybe   a  couple  o'   twelve- 
months from  whin  he  set  out, 
We  began  to  misdoubt  some  bad  luck,  till  at  last 

we  done  worse  than  misdoubt, 
For  the  throuble  crep'  closer  each  day ;   so  I  Ve 

watched  a  fog  dhrift  up  the  shore 
Wipin'  out  one  by  one  every  field  glintin'  green  in 

the  sun  just  before. 
An'  to  my  mind  that  throuble 's  the  worst,  whin 

the  time  keeps  jog-throttin'  along, 
An'  because  nothin'  happens  at  all,  ye  get  certiner 

somethin  's  gone  wrong. 
For  if  grief's  to  befall  ye,  I  'd  liefer  'twould  lape 

on  ye  suddint  when  laste 
Ye  expect,  an'  grip  hould  o'  your  heart  like  some 

nathural  sort  o'  wild  baste, 


TH'  OULD  MASTER  u 

Than   come   slitherin'  by   like  a  snake,  an'   be 

prickin'  your  fut  wid  its  sting 
That  'ill  send  the  death  crawlin'  in  could  thro'  your 

limbs.     But  'twas  just  such  a  thing 
Wid  the  young  master's  letters.     For,  first  time 

one  missed,  all  we  said  was  the  post 
Had   delayed   it   belike ;    an'   next  mail-day  we 

said  one  might  aisy  be  lost 
Comin'  that  far  ;  an'  time  an'  agin  we  'd  be  sayin' : 

'  Och,  musha,  if  aught 
Would  ha'  happint  him,  some  one  'd  ha'  wrote  fast 

enough  wid  the  news ' ;  but  we  thought 
It  was  quare.      Till   at  last  we  were   dhruv  to 

believe  that  he  'd  surely  been  tuk 
Wid    some   fever,   or   met  wid   a  hurt,  and   be 

thravellin'  far  off,  be  bad  luck, 
And  had  died  all  alone,  wid  the  sorra  a  friend  to 

be  sendin'  home  word ; 
Or  what  else  was  the  raison  that  year  afther  year 

tale  nor  tidings  we  heard  ? 


12  TH'  OULD  MASTER 


VI 

But  it  come  cruel  hard  on  th'  ould  master,  for, 

livin'  so  lonesome  an'  quite, 
He'd  got  naught  to  be  takin'  his  mind  off  the 

throuble  by  day  or  by  night. 
An'  he  wouldn't  let  on  he  thought   bad   o'   the 

matter  ;  an'  yet  all  the  same, 
He  'd  be  off  wid  himself  in  the  boat  to  the  town 

every  mornin'  that  came, 
Like  enough  wid  no  chance  in  the  world  o'  the 

mail  bein'  in,  as  he  knew ; 
But  he  'd  set  Widdy  Doyle  at  the  office  a-sortin' 

the  letter-bags  thro', 
An'  stan'  watchin'  as  if  one  'ud  make  all  the  differ 

'twixt  Heaven  and  Hell  ; 
An'  it  never  was  Heaven  ;  for  always  there  'd  be 

the  same  story  to  tell : 


TH'  OULD  MASTER  13 

'No,  there's   nought  for  your  Honor  this   day.' 

An'  he  stopped  himself  goin'  at  last, 
And  'ud  send  the  boys  over,  but,  och,  ere  ye  'd 

think  they  'd  ha'  fairly  got  past 
Inish  Greine,  half  ways  back,  he'd  be  thrampin' 

the  pier  lookin'  out  for  the  boat, 
In   a   down-pour,   mayhap,  wid    the  win'   fit   to 

blusther  the  nap  off  his  coat ; 
An'  'twas :   '  Sorra   a   thing  for  your   Honor.' — 

Ochone,  every  sowl  in  the  place 
Would  be  heart-vexed  to  see  him  creep  home  be 

himself  wid  that  news  in  his  face. 


VII 

Sure,  'tis  waitin'  an'  hopin'  that   keep  ye  tor- 
mented.    It's  aisy  to  say : 

1  Och,  I  '11  put  the  thoughts  out  o'  me  head  ;  I  '11 
not  hope  it  no  more  from  this  day ' ; 


i4  TH'  OULD  MASTER 

But  next  minute,  the  same  as  a  spark   that  ye 

think  ye've  throd  under  your  heel, 
It  flares  up,  an'  flares  out,  an',  begorrah,  it  laves 

you  a  desolit  feel. 
I  remember  one  day  we  made  sure  there  was 

news,  for  the  boat  we  espied 
Wid  the  boys  rowin'  mad,  fit  to  reave  the  ould 

thole-pins  clear  out  of  her  side, 
An'  Long  Mick,  the  big  fool,  lettin'  bawls  in  the 

bows,  and  a-wavin'  the  bag, 
'Cause  a  velopy  'd  come  wid  a  sthrange-coloured 

stamp,  an'  they  'd  settled  to  brag 
Twas  from  'Sthralia.     An',  there,  when  th'  ould 

master  had  tore  it  wid  his  hands  all  a-shake, 
It  was  merely  some  blathers  in  print  o'  the  fortins 

a  body  could  make 
On  the  railroads  in  France ;  an'  that  mornin'  there 

wasn't  a  word  of  abuse 
That  we  didn't  be  givin'  the  omadhaun  Mick — 

but,  sure,  where  was  the  use? 


TH'  OULD  MASTER  15 

So  the  years  slipt  away  an'  away,  an'  no  news  to 

be  had  good  or  ill ; 
But  it 's  more  than  the  years,  I  '11  go  bail,  did  be 

dhrivin'  th'  ould  master  down-hill ; 
Twas  the  wond'rin',  an'  wishin',  an'  frettin'  that 

whitened  the  hair  on  his  head, 
When  'twas  black  as  a  crow,  an'  that  stooped  him, 

when  sthraight  as  a  soldier  he  'd  tread. 


VIII 

An'  the  last  time  he  ever  come  down  on  the 

beach  was  a  dhreary  wild  day 
In  the  could  heart  o'  March,  whin  the  win'  keeps 

a  keen  like  a  dog  gone  asthray, 
An'  the  sun  'ill  let  on  to  be  shinin'  wid  no  taste  of 

heat  in  it  yet, 
An'  the  world  seems  swep'  empty  an'  waitin'  for 

somethin'  it  never  'ill  get. 


1 6  TH'  OULD  MASTER 

So  th'  ould  master  come  mopin'  along  where  me 

boat  was  heeled  up  on  the  sands, 
An'  sat  down  wid  his  hands  on  the  top  of  his 

stick,  an'  his  chin  on  his  hands ; 
Och,  it 's  feeble,  an'  fretted,  an'  lonesome  he  looked 

as  he  stared  o'er  the  gleam 
O'  the  say ;   an'  sez  he  to   me :    '  Connor,  I  'm 

thinkin'  th'  ould  Inish  'ill  seem 
Quare  enough  whin  there 's  ne'er  an  O'Neil  on 't, 

an'  we  afther  own  in'  it  all 
For  these  hundrids  o'  years.'    An' :  '  Yer  Honor,' 

sez  I,  'that's  not  like  to  befall 
In  these  hundrids  o'  years  comin'  by.'     But  sez  he 

wid  a  shake  of  his  head  : 
'  Troth,  'twill  happen  as  soon  as  I  quit ;  for  since 

he — they  Ve  no  hope  but  he 's  dead — 
To  the  sorra  an  O'Neil  Inish  Fay 's  bound  to  go  ; 

'tis  me  uncle's  son's  son, 
That  lives  over  the  wather.     He'd  plenty,  he'd 

plenty — an'  I  'd  but  the  one. 


TH'  OULD  MASTER  17 

Little  news  I've  e'er  heard  o'  thim  all,  an'  that 

little  no  good.     I  misdoubt 
He'll  be  playin'  the   Divil's   game  here,  an'   be 

turnin'  me  poor  people  out : 
Sure  ye  '11  mind  Misther  Denis  'd  ha'  ne'er  thried 

that  trade?     He  would go,  man,  would  go — 
But  in  troth  it 's  hard  lines  on  yous  all.'     An'  sez 

I  to  meself :  '  It  is  so  ; 
It 's  hard  lines  ne'er  to  know  from  one  day  to  the 

other  who  '11  be  ownin'  ye  next, 
Whether  folks  that  be  kind-like  an'  wait  or  a 

grabbin'  ould  naygur  that 's  vext 
Till  he 's  got  the  thatch  burnt  o'er  your  head,  an' 

the  walls  battered  down  round  your  hearth  ; 
'Tis  the  same  as  if  God  an'  the  Divil  tuk  turns 

to  be  ownin'  the  earth ' ; 
So  thinks  I  to  meself.     But,  och  musha,  who'd 

go  to  be  sayin'  a  word 
Might   disthress    the    poor    master   thim   times? 

And  sez  I :  '  Wid  the  help  o'  the  Lord, 
B 


1 8  TH'  OULD  MASTER 

Div'l  a  sowl  save  your  Honor's  own  self '11  get  the 

chance  to  be  thratin'  us  hard 
For  this  great  while.     An'  happen  your  Honor  'd 

step  round  now  by  Gallaher's  yard, 
For  his  pigs  is  a  sight  to  behold.'     An'  sez  he : 

'  Well,  to-morrow  I  might — 
But  to-day — it's  'most  time  I  turned  home.'     The 

Saints  shield  him,  'twas  clear  as  the  light 
That  he  hadn't  the  heart  to  be  carin'  for  aught 

'neath  the  sun,  here  or  there. 
An'  he  off  wid  him  home  to  his  big  empty  house  ; 

an'  to-morrow  came  ne'er. 


IX 

Howsomedever,  afore  very  long,  oft  enough  one 

'ud  say  to  oneself 

Twas  belike  better  luck  afther  all  that  th'  ould 
master  was  laid  on  the  shelf, 


TH'  OULD  MASTER  19 

Than   to    have    him    about    and    around   gettin' 

plagued  wid  the  quareness  o'  things  ; 
For  the  saisons  that  come  bet  the  worsest  of  all 

the  wet  summers  an'  springs 
In  the  lenth  o'  me  life.      Och  bad  cess  to  the 

could  an'  the  snow  an'  the  win', 
Wid  the  storms  an'  the  mists  an'  the  polthogues 

o'  rain  the  week  out  an'  week  in, 
An'  the  oats  bet  to  bruss  wid  the  hail,  an'  the 

bastes  starved  or  dyin'  outright, 
Until  afther  the  thundher  in  June,  all  the  praties 

were  sthruck  wid  the  blight, 
As  ye   couldn't   misdoubt   if  ye   wint   thro'  the 

fields.     But  th'  ould  master,  ye  see, 
Keepin'  close  in  the  house  all  that  while,  'cause 

he  said  he  'd  the  gout  in  his  knee — 
Tho'  'twas  liker  the  grief  at  his  heart — he'd  no 

notion  what  ruin  was  in 't ; 
An'  so,  liefer  than   have   him   annoyed,  it's  the 

greatest  ould  lies  we  'd  invint. 


20  TH'  OULD  MASTER 

For  we  tould  him  the  harvest  and  all  was  as  fine 

as  a  farmer  could  wish  ; 
An'  o'  times  when  the  most  we  could  do  was  to 

sort  him  a  sizeable  dish 
O'  sound  praties  to  serve  wid  his  dinner,  we'd 

say  that  but  seldom  afore 
Such  a  crop  had  been  dug  on  the  Inish ;    an', 

certin,  that  lie  was  no  more 
Than  the  truth ;  for  'twas  worse  than  the  worst 

But  one  mornin'  he  tuk  to  declare 
He  was  sure  that  the  blight  was  about,  for  he  'd 

noticed  the  scent  on  the  air  ; 
An'  we  thought  he  'd  find  out  on  us  thin  ;  but  we 

swore  it  was  merely  a  heap 
Of  haulms  rottin' ;  and  afther  that  day  we  'd  the 

sinse  to  be  careful  to  keep 
A  big  bonfire  o'  rubbish  alight,  if  the  win'  was 

that  way,  close  at  hand, 
So  he  'd  smell  on'y  smoke ;  an',  the  praise  be  to 

goodness,  we  chated  him  grand. 


TIP  OULD  MASTER  21 

And  ourselves  would  be  boilin'  the  weed,  off  the 

rocks,  that 's  the  quare  ugly  thrash, 
All  the  boilin'  in  wather  an'  fire  '11  make  no  more 

than  a  bitter  bad  brash ; 
Just  to  keep  p'  the  sowl  in  your  body,  where 

every  one  keeps  it  that  can, 
Tho'  't  might  aisy  lodge  better  outside,  if  we  knew 

but  the  lie  o'  the  Ian'. 
Thin  the  summer  dhreeped  off  into  autumn,  the 

same  as  a  soaked  sod  o'  turf 
Smoulders  black  ere  it  flickers  a  flame  ;  an'  the 

storms  came  wid  say-waves  an'  surf 
Ragin'  wild  up  the  beach  ;  an'  the  nights  long  an' 

dark,  an'  the  days  cold  and  dhrear, 
An'  we  thinkin'  besides  that  th'  ould  master  'ud 

scarcely  last  out  the  ould  year. 
Och,  I   never  remimbered  whin   things   on   the 

Inish  seemed  lookin'  so  black, 
For  'twas  ugly  the  winter  'ud   be,  wid  a  cruel 

hungry  spring  at  its  back. 


22  TH'  OULD  MASTER 


But  far  on  in   the   last  of  October,  the  news 

that  come  suddint  one  morn 
Nearly  dhruv  us  deminted   wid  joy ;   'twas  too 

good  to  be  true  we  'd  ha'  sworn, 
On'y  somehow  the  Divil  himself  scarce  seemed 

divil  enough  to  go  plot 
Such  a  thrick  on  th'  ould  master  as  that ;  if  he 

would,  he  deserves  all  he 's  got. 
'Twas  a  letter,  no  less,  from  young  master  him- 
self, wrote  the  next  day  but  one 
From  where  else  on  the  earth  save  ould  Dublin,  in 

reach  'twixt  two  shines  o'  the  sun  ; 
And  ourselves  had  made  sure  we  might  thravel 

the  world,  an'  his  grave  all  we  'd  find 
At    its    farthest — 'twas    grand.      An'    the    letter 

explained  how  he  'd  made  up  his  mind 


TH'  OULD  MASTER  23 

That  th'  ould  master  was  gone.     For  some  folk 

comin'  sthraight  from  this  counthry,  they  said, 
Havin'  hould  of  the  story's  wrong  end,  that  O'Neil 

o'  the  Inish  was  dead — 
Inish  Fay — no  mistake  could  be  in  it  at  all  at  all 

— every  one  knew. 
An'  thin  poor   Misther    Denis    got    desprit,  not 

doubtin'  the  throuble  was  true  ; 
For  it  happint  the  sweetheart  he  had  wint  an' 

died  on  him  too,  an'  he  thought 
All  his  life  was  disthroyed,  an'  the  rest  just  a 

rubbish  that  mattered  for  nought 
So  he  joined  wid    a    party    explorin'    some  big 

lonely  hills  afther  gould, 
An'  they  sted  there  I  dunno  how  long,  till  the 

fortins  they  made  was  untould  ; 
But  whin  once  he  got  back  among  people,  by 

chance  the  first  thing  he  heard  tell 
Was  how  folks  home  from  Connaught  were  sayin' 

his  father  was  livin'  an'  well. 


24  TH'  OULD  MASTER 

An'  wid  that  he  slipt  into  a  boat  that  by  luck  was 

just  puttin'  to  say, 
Never  waitin'  to  write  by  the  wires.     An'  belike 

he  'd  be  here  the  next  day. 


XI 

Whiles    I  've   seen  a  big  elm-tree  the  storm 's 

afther  blowin'  clane  out  o'  the  ground, 
That  lay  stark  where  it  fell  all  the  long  winter 

thro',  till  the  spring-time  came  round, 
An'  the  twigs  on  its  boughs  in  the  grass  'ud  be 

greenin'  wid  leaf-buds  an'  shoots 
Same  as  if  they  were  wavin'  above  ;  but  one  knew 

it  was  up  by  the  roots, 
An'  the  life  dyin'  out  of  it.    That 's  what  I  thought 

on  whinever  I  seen 
How  th'  ould  master  cheered  up  wid  the  news. 

He  that  wouldn't  ha'  cared  a  thraneen 


TH'  OULD  MASTER  25 

If  they  'd  tould  him  his  best  cow  was  dead,  or  say- 

wather  had  boiled  wid  his  tay, 
He  was  askin'  for  this  an'  for  that,  an'  discoorsin' 

and  orderin'  away  ; 
An'  remimb'rin'  whate'er  Misther  Denis  was  plased 

wid  in  th'  ould  times  long  sin' : 
'  Lest  he  '11  find  things  amiss  here  to-morrow,'  sez 

he,  '  whin  we  have  him  agin.' 
Yet  he  scarce  could  set  one  fut  'fore  t'  other,  tho' 

for  pleasure  he  couldn't  keep  quite  ; 
An'  we  thought,  sure,  young  master  'd  find  more 

gone  amiss  than  he  'd  aisy  set  right. 
But  the  first  thing  th'  ould  master  'd  go  do,  was 

to  send  the  boys  over  beyant 
Wid  a  boat-load  of  orders  for  aught  he  could  think 

Misther  Denis  might  want — 
Ale,  an'  baccy,  an'  cheese,  an'  the  round  little  cakes 

that  he  liked  wid  his  wine, 
And  a  rug  for  his  room  that  the  rats  had  ate  up 

into  ravels  o'  twine  ; 


26  TH'  OULD  MASTER 

And  a  couple  o'  chairs,  'cause  the  rest  had  got 

burnt  by  some  manner  o'  manes 
When  the  girls  would  be  short  o'  dhry  sticks  for 

the  fires ;  an'  some  glass  for  the  panes 
That  was  out  of  his  windy  since  ever  the  cord  had 

gev  way  wid  a  smash  ; 
And  his  tongs  had  been  broke  in  two  halves,  so 

they  used  it  for  proppin'  the  sash — 
And  I  dunno  what  else  all  besides.     But  before 

we  expected  thim  home, 
They  were  roarin'  like  bulls  up  the  beach  wid  the 

news  Misther  Denis  was  come. 
For  who  else  but  himself  had  they  met  on  the 

quays,  safe  an'  sound,  on'y  grown 
Somethin'  oulder  ;  white  sthrakes  in  his  hair — 

'  Och,'  we  sez,  '  let  that  story  alone  : 
Where 'd  the  lad  get  white  hairs  on  his  head  ?' — 

And  he  'd  bid  thim  be  rowin'  back  sthraight, 
And  himself  'ud  be  over  and  afther  thim  soon,  for 

he  had  but  to  wait 


TH'  OULD  MASTER  27 

Till  his  thraps  were  on  board.     There  was  news  ! 

Howsome'er  we  agreed  'twould  be  best 
To  tell  nought  for  a  while  to  th'  ould  master,  who  'd 

gone  to  his  room  for  a  rest, 
Or  he  'd  likely  enough  get  his  death  standin'  round 

in  the  could  out  o'  doors  ; 
So  we  settled  to  call  him  whenever  we  heard  the 

first  crake  o'  the  oars. 


XII 

Just  a  still  misty  day  wid  no  shadow  or  shine 

was  that  same  Holy  Eve ; 
Not  a  breath  on  the  smooth  o'  the  say,  on'y  now 

an'  agin  a  soft  heave 
Swellin'  up  here  an'  there,  as  ye  '11  see  in  a  sheet 

spread  to  blaich  by  the  hedge, 
That  keeps  risin'  an'  fallin'  as  oft  as  a  breeze  creeps 

in  under  the  edge. 


28  TH'  OULD  MASTER 

Yet,  as  still  as  it  was,  we  well   knew  that  thim 

heaves  was  a  sure  sign  o'  win' 
On  its  way  ;  an'  we  all  were  a-wishin'  the  boat  'ud 

make  haste  an'  come  in  ; 
But  we  watched  an'  we  wished  till  nigh  sunset,  an' 

never  the  sound  of  a  pull, 
Till  at  last,  dhrifted  in  from  the  west,  came  the  fog 

like  a  fleece  o'  sheep's  wool 
Sthreeled  down  low  on  the  wather,  an'  hidin'  away 

whatsoever  it  passed 

In  its  sthreelin' ;  and  all  of  a  minute,  out  some- 
where behind  it,  a  blast 
Lep'  up  howlin'  an'  rushin'  an'  flustherin'  thro'  it, 

an'  dhrivin'  it  on, 
Till  afore  we  knew  rightly  'twas  comin',  it 's  every- 

thin'  else  seemed  clane  gone. 
For  your  eyes  was  'most  blinded  wid  spray,  an'  the 

win'  deaved  your  ears  wid  its  roar, 
Not  a  step  could  ye  look  past  the  foam  that  seethed 

white  to  your  fut  on  the  shore ; 


TH'  OULD  MASTER  29 

Sure  ye  couldn't  ha'  tould  but  the  Inish  was  left 

in  the  wide  world  alone, 
Just  set  down  be  itself  in  the  midst  of  a  mist  and 

a  great  dhreary  moan. 


XIII 

An'  the  thought  of  us  each  was  the  boat ;  och, 

however  'd  she  stand  it  at  all, 
If  she'd  started  an  hour  or  two  back,  an'  been 

caught  in  the  thick  o'  that  squall  ? 
Sure  it 's  lost  she  was,  barrin'  by  luck  it  so  chanced 

she  'd  run  under  the  lee 
O'  Point  Bertragh  or  Inish  Lonane ;  an'  'twas  liker 

the  crathurs  'ud  be 
Crossin'  yonder  the  open,  wid  never  a  shelter,  but 

waves  far  an'  wide 
Rowlin'  one  on  the  other  till  ye  'd  seem  at  the  fut 

of  a  mad  mountain-side. 


30  TH'  OULD  MASTER 

An'  the  best  we  could  hope  was  they  'd  seen  that 

the  weather  'd  be  turnin'  out  quare, 
An'  might,  happen,  ha'  settled  they  wouldn't  come 

over,  but  bide  where  they  were. 
Yet,  begorrah !  'twould  be  the  quare  weather  en- 
tirely, as  some  of  us  said, 
That  'ud  put  Misther  Denis  off  aught  that  he  'd 

fairly  tuk  into  his  head. 
Thin  Tim  Duigan  sez  :  '  Arrah,  lads,  whisht !  afther 

sailin'  thro'  oceans  o'  say, 
Don't  tell  me  he  's  naught  better  to  do  than  get 

dhrowned  in  our  dhrop  of  a  bay.' 
An'  the  words  were  scarce  out  of  his  mouth,  whin 

hard  by,  thro'  a  dhrift  o'  the  haze, 
The  ould  boat  we  beheld  sthrivin'  on  in  the  storm 

— och  the  yell  we  did  raise ! 
An'   it 's   little  we   yelled  for,   bedad !   for,   next 

instant,  there  under  our  eyes, 
Not  a  couple  o'  perch  from  the  pier-end,  th'  ould 

baste  she  must  take  an'  capsize. 


TH'  OULD  MASTER  31 


XIV 

Och  !  small  blame  to  thim  all  if  we  'd  never  seen 

sight  of  a  one  o'  thim  more, 
Wid   the  waves  thumpin'  thuds  where  they  fell, 

like  the  butt-ends  o'  beams  on  a  door ; 
An'  the  black  hollows  whirlin'  between,  an'  tne 

dhrift  flyin'  over  thim  thick, 
'S  if  the  Divil  had  melted  down  Hell,  an'  was 

stirrin'  it  up  wid  a  stick. 
But  it  happint  the  wave  that  they  met  wid  was 

flounderin'  sthraight  to  the  strand, 
An'  just  swep'  thim  up  nate  on  its  way,  till  it  set 

thim  down  safe  where  the  sand 
Isn't  wet  twice  a  twelvemonth,  no  hurt  on  thim 

all,  on'y  dhrippin'  an'  dazed. 
And  one  come  to  his  feet  nigh  me  door,  where 

that  mornin'  me  heifer  had  grazed. 


32  TH'  OULD  MASTER 

An',  bedad  !  'twas  himself,  Misther  Denis,  stood 

blinkin'  an'  shakin'  the  wet 
From  his  hair  :  '  Hullo,  Connor ! '  sez  he, c  is  it  you, 

man  ? '     He  'd  never  forget 
One  he'd  known.     But  I'd  hardly  got  hould  of 

his  hand,  an'  was  wishin'  him  joy, 
Whin,  worse  luck,  he  looked  round  an'  he  spied 

Widdy  Sullivan's  imp  of  a  boy, 
That  a  wave  had  tuk  off  of  his  feet,  an'  was  floatin' 

away  from  the  beach, 
And  he  screechin'  an'  sthretchin'  his  arms  to  be 

saved,  but  no  help  was  in  reach. 
An'  as  soon  as  the  young  master  he  seen  it,  he 

caught  his  hand  out  o'  me  own  : 
'  Now,  stand  clear,  man,'  sez  he,  '  would  ye  have 

me  be  lavin'  the  lad  there  to  dhrown  ? ' 
An'  wid  that  he  throd  knee-deep  in  foam-swirls. 

Ochone !  but  he  gev  us  the  slip, 
Runnin'  sheer  down  the  black  throat  o'  Death,  an' 

he  just  afther  'scapin'  its  grip. 


TH'  OULD  MASTER  33 

For  the  wild  says  come  flappin'  an'  boomin'  an' 

smotherin'  o'er  him,  an'  back 
In  the  lap  o'  their  ragin'  they  swep'  him  as  light 

as  a  wisp  o'  brown  wrack. 
An'  they  poundin'  the  rocks  like  sledge-hammers, 

an'  clatterin'  the  shingle  like  chains ; 
Ne'er  the  live  sowl  they  'd  let  from  their  hould  till 

they  'd  choked  him  or  bet  out  his  brains, 
Sure  an'  certin.     And   in  swung  a  wave  wid  its 

welthers  o'  wather  that  lept 
Wid  the  roar  of  a  lion  as  it  come,  an'  hissed  low 

like  a  snake  as  it  crept 
To  its  edge,  where  it  tossed  thim,  the  both  o'  thim. 

Och  !  an'  the  little  spalpeen 
Misther  Denis  had  gript  be  the  collar,  he  jumped 

up  the  first  thing  we  seen, 
While  young  master  lay  still — not  a  stir — he  was 

stunned  wid  a  crack  on  the  head — 
Just  a  flutter  o'  life  at  his  heart — but  it 's  kilt  he 

was,  kilt  on  us  dead. 
C 


34  TH'  OULD  MASTER 


XV 

An'  so  that  was  the   end   of  it   all.     An1  the 

sorrowful  end  tubbe  sure, 
Whin  our  luck  was  turned  back  into  throuble  no 

power  in  creation  could  cure. 
There  he  lay,  'twixt  the  sod  an'  the  foam,  wid  the 

spray  flingin'  sparkles  in  the  sun, 
For  the  storm  had  throoped  off  in  a  hurry,  contint 

wid  what  mischief  was  done, 
An'  the  last  o'  the  day  in  the  west  from  a  chink  o' 

clear  gold  on  the  rim 
Sent  low  rays  slantin'  red  o'er  the  fall  o'  the  say 

to  the  white  face  of  him 
That  was  still  as  the  image  asleep  o'  the  lad  we  'd 

remimbered  so  long ; 
Never  oulder  a  day  in  those  years.     An'  ourselves 

standin'  round  in  a  throng 


TH'  OULD  MASTER  35 

Kep'  a  clack  like  the  gulls  overhead   that  were 

flickerin'  the  light  wid  their  wings, 
And  as  much  wit  in  one  as  the  other.     Och !  sure 

there 's  no  grief  but  it  brings 
Friends   to  thravel  its  road.      For  while  yet  we 

were  feelin'  his  hands  stifFnin'  could, 
An'  were  sayin'  the  fine  winsome  lad,  an'  the  heart- 
break it  was  to  behould, 
Comes  ould  Peggy,  the  housekeeper,  throttin'  to 

say  that  th'  ould  master  had  woke, 
And  had  sent  her  to  thry  was  there  news.     News  ? 

It  seemed  like  the  Divil's  own  joke. 
An'  what  ailed  him  to  wake?     He'd  a  right  to 

ha'  slep',  wid  that  news  at  his  door, 
Till  the  world's  end.     '  Is 't  news  ye  'd  be  afther  ? ' 

sez  Mick.     *  Ay,  there 's  news  here  galore ; 
But  it's  news  that  I  wouldn't  be  tellin'  while  e'er 

I  Ve  a  tongue  in  me  head  ; 
I  'd  as  lief  stick  a  knife  in  his  heart,  an'  he  lyin' 

asleep  on  his  bed.' 


36  TH'  OULD  MASTER 

An'  sez  Gallaher :  '  Musha,  what  need  to  be  tellin' 

him  yet  ?     Better  send 
For  his  Riverence  beyant  that  consoles  ye  whin 

throuble  's  past  hopin'  to  mend. 
An'  till  thin  there  might  some  one  step  up  an'  let 

on  nothing  'd  happint  below, 
To  contint  him.'     An'  we  all  thought  the  same, 

an'  yet  no  one  was  wishful  to  go ; 
For  we  feared  he  might  somehow  get  hould  o'  the 

truth.     Then  me  brother,  sez  he : 
'  Sure  here 's  Pat,  it 's  colloguin'  a  dale  wid  th'  ould 

master  he  is ' — manin'  me — 
'  He 's  the  man  to  be  sendin'  ;  forby  he  '11  tell  lies 

be  the  dozen  as  fast 
As  a  dog  throts,  will  Pat'      So  they  talked  till 

they  had  me  persuaded  at  last ; 
And  I  thrapesed  off  up  to  the  House.     God  for- 
give me,  each  step  that  I  wint, 
I   was   schemin'   the   quarest   onthruths  I    could 

throuble  me  mind  to  invint. 


TH'  OULD  MASTER  37 


XVI 

But  I  tould  him  the  sorra  a  one,  as  ye  '11  see ; 

'twas  no  doin'  o'  mine. 
For  whin  into  his  room  I  was  come,  that  seemed 

dark,  passin'  out  o'  the  shine 
O'  the  sunset  just  glimmerin'  around  yet,  th'  ould 

master  laned  up  where  he  lay 
Afther  takin'  a  bit  of  a  rest  on  the  bed,  for  the 

most  o'  that  day 
He  'd  been  creepin'  about  to  get  everythin'  readied 

up  dacint  'gin  e'er 
The  young   master  was  home.      Goodness  help 

him,  it 's  time  he  'd  enough  an'  to  spare  ; 
No  more  need  to  be  hurryin'  for  that  than  for 

Doomsday,  if  on'y  he  'd  guessed — 
I  was  sayin',  whin  I'd  knocked  at  his  door,  an' 

slipped  in  to  decaive  him  me  best, 


38  TH'  OULD  MASTER 

It 's  beyant  an'  forby  me  his  eyes  kep'  on  gazin' 

an'  shinin' ;  I  thought 
Mayhap  some  one  was  follyin'  behind   me,  but 

whin  I  looked  round  I  seen  nought, 
Ne'er  a  sowl  save  meself,  that  I  dunna  believe  he 

tuk  heed  on  at  all. 
An'  sez  he :  '  Och,  thin,  Denis,  me  lad,  so  ye  're 

here  ?     Why,  the  step  in  the  hall 
Sounded   strange-like  ;  and  I  to  be  listening  an' 

never  to  think  it  was  you. 
But,  in  troth,  till  ye  stood  in  me  sight,  I  'd  no  aisier 

believe  me  luck  true 
Than  if  sthraight  ye  were  come  from  the  Dead. 

For  the  time,  lad,  wint  wonderful  slow, 
An'  it  seems  like  the  lenth  o'  me  life  since  ye  left 

us  this  great  while  ago  ; 
An'  sure  only  to  look  down  a  long  lenth  o'  time 

sthrikes  the  could  to  your  heart, 
Let  alone  whin  the  days  sthretch  away,  each  like 

each,  an'  nought  keeps  thim  apart 


TH'  OULD  MASTER  39 

Save  the  nights,  when  ye  sleep  scarce  enough  for 

a  dhrame  that  as  soon  as  ye  wake 
Sets  ye  grievin'.     Thim  whiles  there  's  no  end  to 

the  notions  an  ould  body '11  take — 
And  I  larned,  livin'  lonesome,  'twas  ould  I  had 

grown.     If  I  tould  ye  the  half 
O'  what  all  I  was  vexed  wid  supposin'  an'  dhreadin', 

ye  couldn't  but  laugh. 
On'y  one  thing  I  've  settled,  no  laughin'  about  it, 

but  certin  an'  sure  : 
I  '11  not  lose  ye  that  long,  lad,  agin,  for  it 's  more 

than  me  mind  can  endure. 
True  enough,  ye  're  but  young  in  your  life,  and  it 's 

best  maybe 's  waitin'  unknown 
Worlds  away  from  our  bit  of  an  Inish  ;  all 's  one, 

ye  '11  ne'er  quit  it  alone, 
For  there  's  plenty  no  younger  than  me  must  be 

rovin'  as  ould  as  they  are — 
It's  together  we'll  go,  you  and  I,  lad,  next  time 

that  ye  're  thravellin'  so  far. 


40  TH'  OULD  MASTER 

Ay,  together,'  sez  he.  An'  wid  that  come  two  wails 
o'  the  wind,  an'  between 

Sthruck  a  cry  that  was  wailed  by  no  win' ;  'twas 
the  girls  below  raisin'  a  keen  ; 

But  he  laned  his  head  back  lookin'  plased  an'  con- 
tint  ;  an'  they  kep'  keenin'  on. 

They  were  keenin'  for  more  than  they  meant  all 
the  while,  for  th'  ould  master  was  gone. 


XVII 

So  I  'd  sorra  a  hand  in  the  matter  meself,  I  may 

truly  declare. 
'Twas  th'  Almighty's  own  notion  that  night  to 

decaive  him,  if  decaivin'  it  were. 
So  whatever  misfortins  th'ould  master  experienced, 

I  hould  in  a  way 
He  'd  the  bettermost  sort  o'  bad  luck — an'  that 's 

somethin' — because  ye  may  say 


TH'  OULD  MASTER  41 

His  worst  throuble  as  good  as  ne'er  chanced  him  ; 

ne'er  come  to  his  hearin'  or  sight, 
And  a  hurt  that  ye  feel  unbeknownst,  as  the  sayin' 

is,  is  apt  to  be  light. 
An'  bedad  he 's  well  out  of  it  all ;  it 's  ourselves 

have  the  raison  to  grieve 
While  the  say  meets  the  shore  for  what  happint 

this  Inish  that  black  Holy  Eve. 
But  I  '11  whisht ;  for  I  'm  thinkin'  when  things  have 

determined  to  run  to  the  bad, 
There's  no  use  in  discoorsin'  an'  frettin'  save  on'y 

to  dhrive  yourself  mad  ; 
Since  the  storms,  or  the  blight,  or  the  rint  comes 

agin  one  wherever  one  goes, 
Till  one  takes  the  last  turnin'.    An'  thin  if  it 's  true, 

as  some  people  suppose, 
Better  luck  follows  thim  that  are  lavin'  than  thim 

that  are  bidin'  behind — 
Sure  it 's  off  ye  '11  slip  one  o'  these  days,  an'  what 

need  to  be  throublin'  your  mind  ? 


WALLED   OUT 
OR,  ESCHATOLOGY  IN  A  BOG 

Otfx  6vap,  d\X'  faap  tcrO\l»>  S 


WALLED  OUT 

OR,  ESCHATOLOGY  IN  A  BOG 
I 

IN  last  September  it  was,  whin  the  weather  '11 

be  mostly  grand, 
Wid  the  sunshine  turnin'  the  colour  o'  corn  all  over 

the  land, 
An'  the  two  young  gintlemen  came  to  shoot  wid 

their  guns  an'  their  dogs, 
A-thrampin'  just  for  divarsion  about  the  hills  an' 

the  bogs. 
And  I  thramped  afther  thim,  tho'  it 's  little  divarsion 

I  had, 
Carryin'  the  baskits  an'  all ;  but  sure  it 's  meself 

was  glad 


46  WALLED  OUT 

To  earn  the  shillin's  at  sunset,  an'  iligant  loonch 

be  the  way ; 
Mate,  an'  bread,  an'  a  dhrop  to  dhrink — ye  needed 

no  more  that  day. 
For,  tho'  'twas  thick  o'  the  harvest,  down  here  the 

bogs  an'  the  hills 
Lave  on'y  narrow  slips  o'  fields  for  the  furrows  an' 

pratie  dhrills ; 
Terrible  quick  they  're  raped  an'  dug  ;  but  what 

should  the  farmer  do  ? 
If  there's  on'y  work  for  wan,  he  can't  find  wages 

for  two. 


II 

An'  wanst  we  were  restin'  a  bit  in  the  sun  on  the 

smooth  hillside, 

Where  the  grass  felt  warm  to  your  hand  as  the 
fleece  of  a  sheep,  for  wide 


WALLED  OUT  47 

As  ye  'd  look  overhead  an'  around,  'twas  all  a-blaze 

and  a-glow, 
An'  the  blue  was  blinkin'  up  from  the  blackest 

bog-holes  below ; 
An'  the  scent  o'  the  bogmint  was  sthrong  on  the 

air,  an'  never  a  sound 
But  the  plover's  pipe  that  ye  '11  seldom  miss  by  a 

lone  bit  o'  ground. 
An'  he  laned — Misther  Pierce — on  his  elbow,  an' 

stared  at  the  sky  as  he  smoked, 

/ 

Till  just  in  an  idle  way  he  sthretched  out  his  hand 

an'  sthroked 
The  feathers  o'  wan  of  the  snipe  that  was  kilt  an' 

lay  close  by  on  the  grass  ; 
An'  there  was  the  death  in  the  crathur's  eyes  like 

a  breath  upon  glass. 
An'  sez  he :  'It 's  quare  to  think  that  a  hole  ye 

might  bore  wid  a  pin 

'111  be  wide  enough  to  let  such  a  power  o'  dark- 
ness in 


48  WALLED  OUT 

On  such  a  power  o'  light ;  an'  it 's  quarer  to  think,' 

sez  he, 
'  That  wan  o'  these  days  the   like   is  bound   to 

happen  to  you  an'  me.' 
Thin  Misther  Barry,  he  sez  :  '  Musha,  how 's  wan 

to  know  but  there 's  light 
On  t'  other  side  o'  the  dark,  as  the  day  comes 

afther  the  night?' 
An'  '  Och,'  sez  Misther  Pierce,  '  what  more 's  our 

knowin' — save  the  mark — 
Than  guessin'  which  way  the  chances  run,  an'  thinks 

I  they  run  to  the  dark ; 
Or  else  agin  now  some  glint  of  a  bame  'd  ha'  come 

slithered  an'  slid  ; 
Sure  light 's  not  aisy  to  hide,  an'  what  for  should 

it  be  hid  ? ' 
Up  he  stood  wid  a  sort  o'  laugh  ;  '  If  on  light,'  sez 

he, '  ye  're  set, 
Let 's  make  the  most  o'  this  same,  as  it 's  all  that 

we  're  like  to  get.' 


WALLED  OUT  49 


III 

Thim   were  his   words,  as  I  minded   well,  for 

often  afore  an'  sin' 
The  'dintical  thought  'ud  bother  me  head  that 

seemed  to  bother  him  thin  ; 
An'  many 's  the  time  I  'd  be  wond'rin'  whatever  it 

all  might  mane, 
The  sky,  an'  the  Ian',  an'  the  bastes,  an'  the  rest 

o'  thim  plain  as  plain, 
And   all   behind    an'   beyant   thim   a   big  black 

shadow  let  fall ; 
Ye  '11  sthrain  the  sight  out  of  your  eyes,  but  there 

it  stands  like  a  wall. 
'  An'  there,'  sez  I  to  meself,  '  we  're  goin'  wherever 

we  go, 
But  where  we  '11  be  whin  we  git  there  it 's  never  a 

know  I  know.' 

D 


50  WALLED  OUT 

Thin  whiles  I  thought  I  was  maybe  a  sthookawn 

to  throuble  me  mind 
Wid  sthrivin'  to  comprehind  onnathural  things  o' 

the  kind ; 
An'  Quality,  now,  that  have  larnin',  might  know 

the  rights  o'  the  case, 
But  ignorant  wans  like  me  had  betther  lave  it  in 

pace. 


IV 

Priest,  tubbe  sure,  an'  Parson,  accordin'  to  what 

they  say, 
The  whole  matther's  plain  as  a  pikestaff  an'  clear 

as  the  day, 
An'   to   hear  thim  talk  of  a  world  beyant  ye'd 

think  at  the  laste 
They  'd  been  dead  an'  buried  half  their  lives,  an' 

had  thramped  it  from  west  to  aist ; 


WALLED  OUT  51 

An'  who's  for  above,  an'  who's  for  below  they've 

as  pat  as  if  they  could  tell 
The   name  of  every  saint   in    Heaven  an'  every 

divil  in  Hell. 
But  cock  up  the  likes  of  thimselves  to  be  settlin' 

it  all  to  their  taste — 
I  sez,  and  the  wife  she  sez  I'm  no  more  nor  a 

haythin  baste — 
For  mighty  few  o'  thim  's  rael  Quality,  musha, 

they  're  mostly  a  pack 
O'  playbians,  each  wid  a  tag  to  his  name  an'  a 

long  black  coat  to  his  back  ; 
An'  it's  on'y  romancin'  they  are  belike;  a  man 

must  stick  be  his  trade, 
An'  they  git  their  livin'  by  lettin'  on  they  know 

how  wan's  sowl  is  made. 
And  in  chapel  or  church  they  're  bound  to  know 

somethin'  for  sure,  good  or  bad, 
Or  where 'd   be  the   sinse  o'   their  preachin'  an* 

prayers  an'  hymns  an'  howlin'  like  mad  ? 


52  WALLED  OUT 

So  who  'd  go  mindin'  o'  thim  ?   barrin'  women,  in 

coorse,  an'  wanes, 
That  believe  'most  aught  ye  tell  thim,  if  they 

don't  understand  what  it  manes — 
Bedad,  if  it  worn't  the  nathur  o'  women  to  want 

the  wit, 
Parson  an'  Priest   I'm  a-thinkin'  might  shut  up 

their  shop  an'  quit. 
But,  och,  it 's  lost  an'  disthracted  the  crathurs  'ud 

be  widout 
Their  bit  o'  divarsion  on  Sundays  whin  all  o'  thim 

gits  about, 
Cluth'rin'  an'  plutth'rin'  together  like  hins,  an'  a- 

roostin'  in  rows, 
An'  meetin'  their  frins  an'  their  neighbours,  an' 

wearin'  their  dacint  clothes. 
An'  sure  it's  quare  that  the  clergy  can't  ever 

agree  to  keep 
Be  tellin'  the  same  thrue  story,  sin'  they  know 

such  a  won'erful  heap ; 


WALLED  OUT  53 

For  many  a  thing  Priest  tells  ye  that  Parson  sez 

is  a  lie, 
An'  which  has  a  right  to  be  wrong,  the  divil  a 

much  know  I, 
For  all  the  differ  I  see  'twixt  the  pair  o'  thim  'd 

fit  in  a  nut : 
Wan  for  the  Union,  an'  wan  for  the  League,  an' 

both  o'  thim  bitther  as  sut. 
But  Misther  Pierce,  that 's  a  gintleman  born,  an' 

has  college  larnin'  and  all, 
There  he  was  starin'  no  wiser  than  me  where  the 

shadow  stands  like  a  wall. 


An'  soon  afther  thin,  it  so  happint,  things  grew 

so  conthrary  an'  bad, 
I  fell  to  wond'rin'  a  dale  if  beyant  there 's  aught 

betther  at  all  to  be  had  ; 
I 


54  WALLED  OUT 

For  the  blacker  this  ould  world  looks,  an'  the 

more  ye  're  bothered  an'  vexed, 
The  more  ye  '11  be  cravin'  an'  longin'  for  somethin' 

else  in  the  next ; 
While  whinever  there's  little  that  ails  ye,  an'  all 

goes  slither  as  grase, 
Ye  don't  so  much  as  considher,  bedad,  if  there 's 

e'er  such  a  place. 
The  same  as  a  man  comin'  home  from  his  work  of 

a  winther's  night, 
Whin  the  wind's   like  ice,  an'  the  snow  an'  the 

rain  have  him  perished  outright, 
His  heart  '11  be  set  on  a  good  turf  blaze  up  the 

chimney  roarin'  an'  red, 
That  '11  put  the  life  in  him  agin  afore  he  goes  to 

his  bed ; 
Tho'  on  summer  evenin's,  whin  soft  as  silk  was 

every  breath  that  wint, 
He  'd  never  have  axed  for  a  fire,  but  turned  to  his 

sleep  contint. 


WALLED  OUT  55 


VI 

The  first  thing  that  wint  agin  us,  an'  sure  we 

were  rale  annoyed, 
Was  when  Smithson,  he  that 's  steward  at  the  Big 

House,  he  tuk  an'  desthroyed 
Rexy,  our  little  white  dog,  that  we  'd  rared  from 

no  more  than  a  pup, 
For  a  matther  o'  four  or  five  year,  an'  had  kep' 

him  an'  petted  him  up. 
Huntin'  the  sheep?     If  ye'd  seen  him  ye'd  know 

they  were  tellin'  a  lie, 
Him  that  wasn't  the  size  of  a  rabbit,  an'  wouldn't 

ha'  hurted  a  fly. 
And  the  frinliest  baste,  morebetoken,  ye  'd  find  in 

a  long  day's  walk, 
An'  knowin'  an'  sinsible,  too,  as  many  a  wan  that 

can  talk. 


56  WALLED  OUT 

I  might  come  home  early  or  late,  yet  afore  I  was 

heard  or  seen, 
He  'd  be  off  like  a  shot  an'  meet  me  a  dozen  perch 

down  the  boreen  ; l 
An'  whiles  ye  'd  be  kilt  wid  laughin',  that  quare 

wor  his  ways  an'  his  thricks — 
But  there  he  lay  stone  dead  be  the  gate  at  the 

back  o'  Hourigan's  ricks  ; 
For  it 's  creepin'  home  the  crathur  was  in  hopes  to 

die  near  his  frins, 
On'y  he  couldn't  creep  no  furdher  wid  the  leg  of 

him  smashed  into  splins. 
An'  och,  but  the  house  was  lonesome  whin  we  'd 

buried  him  down  be  the  dyke, 
An'  the  childer  bawled  thimselves  sick,  for  they 

thought  that  there  wasn't  his  like  ; 
An'  just  this  night,  comin'  up  to  the  door,  I  was 

thinkin'  I  'd  give  a  dale 
For  the  sound  of  his  bark,  an"  the  pat  of  his  paws, 

an'  the  wag  of  his  tail. 

1  A  narrow  lane  with  high  banks. 


WALLED  OUT  57 


VII 

An'  thin  the  winther  began,  on  a  suddint  it 

seemed,  for  the  trees 
Were  flamin'  like  fire  in  the  wood  whin  it  tuk  to 

perish  an'  freeze ; 
An'  thro'  your  bones  like  a  knife  wint  the  win' 

that  come  keenin'  around, 
An'  afther  that  wid  the  pours  o'  rain  we  were 

fairly  dhrowned. 
For  the  wather  'd  be  runnin'  in  sthrames  beneath 

the  step  at  the  door, 
An'  t'ould  thatch  that's  thick  wid   holes   let  it 

dhrip  in  pools  on  the  floor, 
Till  sorra  the  fire  'ud  burn,  wid  the  peat-sods  no 

betther  than  mud, 
Since    the    stacks     thimselves     outside    seemed 

meltin'  away  in  the  flood. 


58  WALLED  OUT 

But  the  worst  of  it  was  those  times,  that,  what 

wid  the  wet  an'  the  frost, 
Ne'er  a  hand's  turn  could  be  done  in  the  fields,  so 

wan's  wages  were  lost 
Many's  the  week  I  could  scarce  git  a  job  from 

wan  end  to  the  other, 
An'  many 's  the  night  they  wint  hungry  to  bed, 

both  childher  an'  mother — 
An',  begorra,  the  hardest  day's  work  a  man  ever 

did  is  to  sit 
Wid  his  hands   before  him  at   home,  whin  the 

childher  haven't  a  bit 
Thin  the  wife  tuk  sick,  an'  was  mortial  bad, 

an'  cravin'  a  dhrink  as  she  lay, 
An'  I  couldn't  so  much  as  git  her,  the  crathur,  a 

sup  o'  tay  ; 
An'  the  floor  was  says  o'  mud,  an'  the  house  a 

smother  o'  smoke, 
Till  between  thim  all,  begorra,  me  heart  it  was 

fairly  broke. 


WALLED  OUT  59 


VIII 

But  I   mind  wan  Sathurday's  night,  whin  we 

just  were  starved  wid  the  could, 
Me  mother,  she  that  we  keep,  an'  that 's  growin' 

terrible  ould, 
All  of  a  heap  she  was  crouched  be  the  hearth 

that  was  black  as  your  grave, 
For  clane  gone  out  was  the  fire ;   and  her  ould 

head  never  'ud  lave 
Thrimblin'  on  like  a  dhrop  o'  rain  that 's  ready  to 

fall  from  the  row, 
The  faster  it  thrimbles  an'  thrimbles  the  sooner 

it  is  to  go. 
And  her  poor  ould  hands  were  thrimblin'  as  she 

sthretched  thim  out  for  the  hate, 
For  she  'd  gone  too  blind  to  see  that  there  wasn't 

a  spark  in  the  grate  ; 


60  WALLED  OUT 

Nor  bit  nor  sup  she'd  had  but  a  crust  o'  dhry 

bread  that  day, 
'Cause  our  praties  had  rotted  on  us,  an'  we  'd  had 

to  throw  thim  away  ; 
An'  I  knowed  she  was  vexed,  for,  sure,  it 's  but 

doatin'  she  is  afther  all, 
And  'ill  fret  like  a  child  whin  she  feels  that  her 

slice  is  cut  skimpy  an'  small ; 
But  other  whiles  she  'd  be  grievin  that  we  'd  not 

got  quit  of  her  yet, 
An'    misdoubtin'    we    grudged    away    from    the 

childher  each  morsel  she  'd  get 
An'  watchin'  her  sittin'  there,  an'  rememb'rin' 

the  life  she  'd  led, 
For  me  father  dhrank,  an'  she  'd  throuble  enough 

to  keep  the  pack  of  us  fed, 
An'  never  the  comfort  she  'd  now,  an'  she  grown 

feeble  an'  blind — 
I  couldn't  but  think  'twas  a  cruel  bad  job  for  such 

as  she  if  behind 


WALLED  OUT  61 

The  blackness  over  beyant  there  was  nought  but 

could  for  the  could, 
An'  dark  for  the  dark — no  new  world  at  all  to 

make  amends  for  the  ould. 
Tho'  in  troth  it  'ud  have  to  be  the  quarest  world 

ye  could  name 
That  'ud  make  it  worth  wan's  while  to  ha'  lived 

in  the  likes  o'  this  same. 


IX 

But  the  dhrame  I  dhreamt  that  night  was  as 

sthrange  as  sthrange,  for  thin 
I  thought  I  had  come  to  a  place  whose  aquil  I 

never  was  in, 
An'  nobody 'd  tould  me  'twas  out  o'  this  world, 

yet  as  soon  as  I  came 
Just  o'  meself  I   knew   it,  as  people  will  in  a 

dhrame. 


62  WALLED  OUT 

An'  it  looked  an  iligant  counthry,  an'  all  in  a 

glimmerin'  green, 
The  colour  o'  leaves  in  the  spring,  wid  a  thrimble 

o'  mist  between  ; 
An'  the  smell  o'  the  spring  was  in  it,  but  the 

light  that  sthramed  over  all 
Was  liker  the  shine  of  a  sunset  whin  leaves  are 

beginnin'  to  fall. 


An'  two  were  talkin'  together,  that  must  ha' 

been  standin'  near, 
Tho'  out  o'  me  sight  they  kep' ;  an'  their  voices 

were  pleasant  to  hear. 
An'  wan  o'  them  sez  to  the  other:   'It's  this  I 

don't  undherstand, 
The  sinse  o'  this  wall  built  yonder  around  an' 

about  the  land  ' — 


WALLED  OUT  63 

An',  sure,  as  he  spoke  I  saw  where  it  glimpsed 

thro'  the  boughs  close  by — 
'  For,'  sez  he,  '  it  hides  our  world,  as  the  thruth  is 

hid  be  a  lie, 
From  every  sowl  that 's  alive  on  the  weary  earth 

below, 
Till  ne'er  such  a  place  there  might  be  at  all,  for 

aught  they  can  know. 
But  grand  it  'ud  be  some  mornin'  to  make  it  melt 

off  like  the  haze, 
An'  lave  thim  a  sight  o'  this  land  that  they're 

comin'  to  wan  o'  these  days. 
For  look  ye  at  Ireland,  now,  where  they  're  just  in 

a  desperit  state, 
Wid  the  people  sleepin'  on  mud,  an'  wantin'  the 

morsel  to  ait ; 
If  they  knew  there  was  betther  in  store,  I  dunno 

what  harm  could  be  in 't, 
Or  what  it  'ud  do  but  hearten  thim  up,  an'  keep 

thim  a  bit  contint.' 


64  WALLED  OUT 


XI 

Thin  t'  other :  '  Mind  you,  there 's  many  that 's 

new  to  this  place,'  sez  he, 
'  Comes  axin'  the  same  as  yourself.    But  considher 

the  way  it  'ud  be. 
For  whin  wanst  we  downed   wid   the  wall,  an* 

nothin'  was  left  to  pervint 
The  poor  folks   yonder  beholdin'   the   grandeur 

we  've  here  fornint, 
An'  nearer  a  dale,  belike,  than  they'd  ever  ha' 

thought  or  believed, 
Who  are  the  fools  that  'ud  stay  any  more  where 

they  're  throubled  an'  grieved, 
An'  wouldn't  be  off  wid  thim  here  ?     Why,  now, 

whin  there 's  nought  but  a  vast 
O'  shadow  an'  blackness  afore  him  who  looks  to 

his  death  an'  past 


WALLED  OUT  65 

Why,  even  so,  there 's  a  few  comes  in  that  life  wid 

its  weary  work 
Hasdhruv  intirely  mad,  till  they  leptto  their  ends 

in  the  dark. 
'  An'  in  Ireland,  sure,  this  instant,  there 's  crowds 

o'  thim  sailin'  bound 
Off  to  the  States  an'  'Sthralia,  that 's  half  o'  the 

whole  world  round, 
Miles  an'  miles  thro'  the  waves  an'  storms,  an'  whin 

they  Ve  got  there,  bedad, 
No  such  won'erful  lands,  but  just  where  their  livin's 

aisier  had. 
An'  it 's  mostly  the  young  folks  go,  so  the  ould  do 

be  frettin'  sore, 
For  thim  that  are  gone  they  doubt  'ill  come  home 

in  their  time  no  more  ; 
An'  dhreary  as  e'er  the  long  winther's  night  is  the 

lonesome  summer's  day, 
Whin  there's  never  a   stir  in  the  house,  an'  the 

childher  are  over  the  say. 
E 


66  WALLED  OUT 

'  And,  arrah  now,  wouldn't  it  be  the  worst  day 

that  ould  Ireland  has  known, 
Whin  she  'd  waken  an'  find   all  the   people  had 

quitted  an'  left  her  alone  ? 
Never  a  voice  to  be  heard,  or  a  hover  o'  smoke  to 

be  spied, 
An'  sorra  a  sowl  to  set  fut  on  the  green  o'  the  grass 

far  an'  wide, 
Till  the  roads  ran  lone  thro'  the  Ian'  as  the  sthrame 

that  most  desolit  flows, 
An'  the  bastes,  sthrayed  away  in  the  fields,  grew 

as  wild  as  the  kites  an'  the  crows, 
An'  no  wan  to  care  what  became  o'  the  counthry 

left  starin'  an'  stark — 
But  that 's  how  'twould  happen  if  ever  we  let  thim 

look  clear  thro'  the  dark.' 


WALLED  OUT  67 


XII 

An'  the  other,  sez  he  :  '  Thrue  for  ye ;  but  what 

seems  sthrange  to  me  yet 
Is  the  notions  they  Ve  learned  down  yonder  in  spite 

o'  this  screen  ye  've  set ; 
For  there's  many  hears  tell  of  a  pleasant  place 

where  a  man  'ill  go  whin  he  dies, 
An'  some  be  that  certin  sure,  ye  'd  think  they  'd 

seen  it  all  wid  their  eyes.' 


XIII 

'  The  raison  o'  that,'  sez  he, '  is,  we  wouldn't  let 

thim  despair, 

Oliver  an'  clane,  any  more  than  we  'd  show  thim 
the  whole  of  it  clear  ; 


68  WALLED  OUT 

So  wanst  in  a  while  we  've  given  to  some  poor 

crathur  o'  thim 
A  glimpse  at  this  place,  but  on'y  lapt  up  in  a  mist 

like  an'  dim. 
An"  as  soon  as  it  slips  from  their  sight  'tis  dhrowned 

in  the  darkness  deep, 
Till  sometimes  they  doubt  afther  all  if  'twas  aught 

but  a  dhrame  in  their  sleep. 
An'  the  rest  spy  nothin'  at  all,  but  they  hear  from 

the  folks  that  do, 
An'  they  wish  it  so  bad  that  often  they  believe 

they  believe  it 's  thrue. 
'  But  suppose,  now,  wan  that  was  hungry  could 

watch  unbeknownst  thro'  a  chink 
Where  some  had  a  faste  preparin',  the  finest  ye 

ever  could  think, 
If  he  thought  he  'd  a  chance  o'  the  thrate,  sure  it's 

quiet  an'  still  he  'd  wait, 
For  fear  if  he  came  ere  they  called  they  'd  be  puttin' 

him  out  of  it  sthraight.' 


WALLED  OUT  69 


XIV 

That 's  all  their  discoorse  I  remember,  for  thin, 

as  sure  as  I  'm  born, 
It  was  Rexy's  bark  that  I  heard — no  other  baste's, 

I  '11  be  sworn  : 
And  I  couldn't  tell  ye  the  pleasure  I  tuk  in 't,  for 

somehow  the  sound 
Seemed  givin'  a  nathural  feel  to  whatever  I  seen 

around. 
And  I  just  was  thinkin' :  '  It 's  mad  wid  joy,  poor 

Rexy,  he  'd  be  if  he  knew 
There  was  wan  of  us  come  from  th'  ould  place  at 

home ' — whin,  och  wirrasthrew, 
All  in  a  minute  I  opened  me  eyes  where  I  lay  on 

the  floor, 
An'  the  child   was   keenin'   away,  an'  the  wind 

moanin'  under  the  door, 


70  WALLED  OUT 

An'  the  puddle  was  freezed  by  the  hearth,  that 

hadn't  a  spark  to  show, 
An'  outside  in  the  could  daylight  the  air  was 

a-flutther  wid  snow, 
An'  the  black  bank  sthraked  wid  white  like  the 

bars  on  a  magpie's  wing — 
For  sorra  a  word  o'  thruth  was  in't,  an'  I  'd  nought 

but  dhramed  the  thing. 


XV 

Sorra  a  word  o'  thruth — yet  some  sez  that  they  Ve 

never  a  doubt 
But  there 's  plenty  o'  thruth  in  a  dhrame,  if  ye  turn 

it  the  right  side  out : 
An'  I  mind  me  mother,  wan  night  she  dhreamt  of 

a  ship  on  the  say, 
An'  next  mornin'  her  Micky,  the  souldier,  came 

home  that  was  years  away. 


WALLED  OUT  71 

Thin  a  notion  I  have,  as  I  woke,  I  'd  heard  wan  o' 

thim  two  inside 
Sayin' :  '  Sleep,  that 's  the  chink  for  a  glimpse,  but 

death,  that 's  the  door  set  wide ' ; 
An'  whin  things  do  be  cruel  conthrary,  wid  could 

an'  the  hunger  an'  all, 
Some  whiles  I  fall   thinkin' :  '  Sure,  maybe,  it 's 

on'y  a  bit  o'  their  wall.' 
So  p'rhaps  it 's  a  fool  that  I  am,  but  many 's  the 

time,  all  the  same, 
I  sez  to  meself  I  'd  be  wishful  for  just  a  dhrame  o' 

that  dhrame. 


LAST  TIME  AT  M'GURK'S 
OR,  MICK  FLYNN  DE  SENECTUTE 

.     .     .     IlcXXct  nkv  a.1  /j.a.Kpa.1  djulpat  KarWevTO  Si) 
),  TO,  repvovra.  6'oiK  &v  tfiois  Sirov 


LAST  TIME  AT  M'GURK'S 
OR,    MICK    FLYNN    DE    SENECTUTE 

I 
BETTHER  nor  thirty  year  sin'  Barney  M'Gurk 

set  up 
Here  by  the  ould  cross-roads,  and,  begorra,  there 's 

many  a  sup 
I  've  tuk  sittin'  snug  be  the  hearth  in  the  corner 

he  calls  me  own, 
For  all  it 's  a  quare  bad  custhomer  Barney  '11  ha' 

found  me,  ochone, 
This  long  while  back,  bringin'  seldom  or  never  the 

pinny  to  spind ; 
But  Barney  M'Gurk  isn't  wan  that  'ud  disremem- 

ber  a  frind. 


76  LAST  TIME  AT  M'GURK'S 

So  many 's  the  warm  I  've  had  in  the  could  o'  the 

winther's  night, 
For  he  keeps  up  the  grandest  o'  fires ;  ye  '11  see 

the  glim  of  it  bright 
Away  down  the  bog ;  it 's  the  divil  to  pass  be  the 

door  in  the  dark, 
Whin  ye  doubt  if  at  home  on  the  bit  o'  wet  floor 

ye  '11  find  ever  a  spark. 
And  oft  o'  these  summer  evenin's  I  've  watched 

how  the  moon  'ill  stale 
O'er  yonder  black  ridge  o'  Knockreagh  like  the 

ghost  of  a  little  white  sail, 
Wid  never  a  beam  to  her  more  than  a  ball  o'  the 

thistle-down, 
Till  she  'd  drink  every  dhrop  o'  the  light  from  the 

breadths  o'  the  air  aroun', 
An'  shine  like  a  bubble  o'  silver  that  swells  an' 

swells,  an'  thin 
Float  off  thro'  the  thick  o'  the  stars.     But  I'll 

never  watch  her  agin. 


LAST  TIME  AT  M'GURK'S  77 


II 

Barney,  he  'd  always  the  luck  from  the  time  we 

were  on'y  gossoons. 
Look  at  our  Band  now :    I    always  was  terrible 

fond  o'  the  tunes, 
Yet  if  ever  I  thried  at  a  note,  it 's  each  ringer  I 

had  seemed  a  thumb, 
While  Barney,  just  git  me  the  lad  that  'ud  bate 

him  at  batin'  the  dhrum, 
Th'  ould  sargint,  who'd   soldiered  in  Agypt  an' 

Injy,  he  swore  be  his  sowl 
There  wasn't  the  rigimint  marchin'  but  he  'd  aquil 

it  rowlin'  the  rowl. 
Och !  it 's  thim  was  the  great  times  entirely  foi 

Barney,  an'  me,  an'  the  boys, 
An'  we  kep'  the  neighbours  alive  wid  the  capers  we 

had  an'  the  noise, 


78  LAST  TIME  AT  M'GURK'S 

For  there 'd  scarce  be  a  moonshiny  night  but  we'd 

thramp  as  far  afther  our  Band 
As  afther  the   plough   in   the   field   whin   ye 're 

trenchin'  an  acre  o'  land. 
Bangin'  away,  wid  the  bits  o'  spalpeens  all  throt- 

throttin'  beside, 
An'  wishin'  their  legs  were  the  lenth  to  keep  step, 

an'  the  doors  flyin'  wide 
Wid  the  girls  lookin'  out ;  an'  the  moonbeams  so 

still  on  the  fields  till  we  come, 
Ye  might  think  all  the  sounds  in  the  earth  had  run 

into  each  boom  of  our  dhrum. 


Ill 


But,  throth,  I  remember  the  mornin'  we  started 

for  Ballynagraile 

To   fetch  home  ould   Andy  O'Rourke,  who'd  a 
twelvemonth  in  Limerick  jail 


LAST  TIME  AT  M'GURK'S  79 

For  fright'nin'  the  bailiffs — divil  mend  thim — that 

dhruv  off  his  mare  for  the  tithe, 
And  Andy  he  bid  thim  begone,  or  he  'd  shorten 

their  legs  wid  his  scythe. 
So  we  all  were  assembled  to  meet  him ;  ye  never 

beheld  such  a  throng, 
Down  the  lenth  o'  the  sthreet,  wid  folk  standin' 

to  see  us  come  marchin'  along ; 
'Twas  as  pleasant  a  mornin'  in  April  as  ever  shone 

out  o'  the  sky, 
An'  the  brass  of  our  insthruments  gleam  in'  was  fit 

to  ha'  dazzled  your  eye  ; 
But  the  p61is  looked  cross  as  the  dogs,  'cause  they 

couldn't  be  rights  interfere 
To  hinder  our  lads  o'  their  playin' ;  bedad  !  an'  ye 

felt,  whin  ye  'd  hear 
How  they  wint   like  the  thundher  an'  lightnin', 

that  afther  the  dhrum  an'  the  fife 
Ye  could  step  to  the  end  o'  the  world,  wid  all  the 

pleasure  in  life. 


8o  LAST  TIME  AT  M'GURK'S 

An'  close  where  I  waited,  I  mind,  there  came 

hobblin'  outside  of  his  door 
An  ould  ancient  man,  I  can't  tell  ye  his  name — 

I  'd  ne'er  seen  him  before — 
All  doubled  in  two,  wid  a  beard  like  a  fleece,  an' 

scarce  able  to  stand, 
For  he  shook  like  a  bough  in  the  win',  tho'  he 

laned  on  a  stick  in  each  hand. 
But  to   notice  the  glint   of  his   eye,  whin   they 

sthruck  up  Saint  Pathrick ;  bedad, 
If  he'd  had  thim  same  eyes  in  his  feet,  it's  a  jig 

he  'd  ha'  danced  there  like  mad  ; 
On'y  just  the  wan  minute;    for  thin  he  stared 

round,  seemin'  sthrange  to  the  place, 
Till  he  turned  away  back  to  his  door  wid  a  quare 

sort  o'  look  on  his  face, 
As  if  he  was  layin'  his  hand  off  o'  somethin'  he 

liefer  'ud  hould, 
An'  soft  to  himself  I  heard  him :  '  Sure  I  Jm  ould,' 

sez  he, '  sure  I  'm  ould.' 


LAST  TIME  AT  M'GURK'S  81 


IV 

There 's  some  things  that  run  on  in  your  mind 

like  a  thread  that 's  onevenly  spun 
Down  your  coat-sleeve  ;  for,  afther  these  years,  I 

'most  see  him  stand  clear  in  the  sun  ; 
But  now,  be  worse  luck,  I  can  tell  what  I  couldn't 

ha'  tould  that  day — 
The  notion  he  had  in  his  head,  whin  he  said  it 

an'  turned  away. 
To  be   ould — sure,  considh'rin'  the  time  ye '11 

be  growin'  so  before  your  own  eyes, 
It's  quare  how  whinever  ye  think  o't  it  seems  like 

a  sort  o'  surprise ; 
My  belief's  that  if  people  were  sevinty  the  very 

first  day  they  were  born, 
They  'd  never  git  used  to  it  rightly,  and  if,  be  odd 

chance,  some  fine  morn 
F 


82  LAST  TIME  AT  M'GURK'S 

The  ouldest  ould  man  in  the  counthry  would  find 

whin  he  wakened  that  he 
Was  a  slip  of  a  lad,  he'd  just  feel  it  the  nathur'lest 

thing  that  could  be. 
So  it 's  noways  too  sthrange  if  wan 's  sometimes 

forgittin'  awhile  how  things  stand, 
Like  the  ould   chap   at   Ballynagraile,  whin  his 

mind  was  tuk  up  wid  our  Band. 


But  the  marchin'  around,  an'  the  tunes,  an'  the 

thricks  that  the  young  fellows  play, 
Tisn't  thim  ye  think  badly  o'  missin',  at  laste  on'y 

wanst  in  a  way ; 
For,  as  far  as  I  know  be  experience,  ye  '11  mostly 

be  plased  nigh  as  well 
If  the  childher  Ve  their  bit  o'  divarsion  the  same 

as  ye  had  yoursel' ; 


LAST  TIME  AT  M'GURK'S  83 

An'  your  legs  get  so  stiff  of  an  evenin',  that  afther 

your  day's  work  is  done 
Ye  're  contint  wid  the  full  o'  your  pipe  at  the  door, 

and  a  sight  o'  the  fun. 
It's  your  work,  your  day's  work;  that's   the 

mischief.     It 's  little  enough  I  knew, 
Whin  the  sun  had  me  scorched  to  the  bone,  or  the 

win'  maybe  perished  right  thro', 
In  the  field  or  the  bog,  as  might  chance,  an'  I  'd 

think  to  meself  I  could  wish 
Nought  betther  than  never  agin  to  be  loadin'  a 

cart  or  a  kish — 
It 's  little  I  knew  ;  for,  sure,  now,  whin  I  couldn't 

to  save  o'  me  soul 
So  much  just  as  carry  a  creel  to  our  heap  from 

the  next  bog-hole, 
The  two  eyes  I  'd  give  out  o'  me  head  to  be  peltin' 

away  at  it  still, 
Mowin'   a   meadow,   or   cuttin'  the   turf,   ay,  or 

ploughin'  up  hill. 


84  LAST  TIME  AT  M'GURK'S 

For  I  hate  to  be  hearin'  the  lads  turnin'  out  whin 

the  dawn  blinks  in, 
And  I  lyin'  there  like  a  log  wid  the  sorra  a  job 

to  begin, 
Barrin'  helpin'  to  ait  up  the  praties,  an'  they  none 

too  plenty  perhaps ; 
Sure,  the  pig 's  worther  keepin',  poor  baste,  for  it 's 

fatter  he  gits  on  his  scraps. 
So  at  home  be  the  hearth-stone  I  stick,  or  I  creep 

up  an'  down  be  the  wall, 
An'  the  day  feels  as  long  as  a  week,  an'  there 

seems  no  sinse  in  it  all. 


VI 

And  in  throth  I  Ve  no  call  to  be  laid  on  the  shelf 

yet,  as  ould  as  I  be : 

There 's  Thady  O'Neill  up  above,  that 's  a  year  or 
so  senior  to  me, 


LAST  TIME  AT  M'GURK'S  85 

An'  passin'  his  meadow  just  now,  I  seen  it  was 

mowin',  and  bedad, 
There 's  himself  in  it  stoopin'  away  as  limber  an' 

soople  as  a  lad. 
An'  the  Widdy  Maclean,  that  was  married  afore  I 

was  three  fut  high, 
She'll  thramp  her  three  mile  to  the  town  every 

market  day  that  comes  by. 
'Twas  the  fever,  last  Lent  was  a  twelvemonth, 

disthroyed  me  ;  I  'm  fit  for  nought  since. 
The  way  of  it  was :  Our  ould  cow  had  sthrayed  off 

thro'  the  gap  in  the  fence, 
An'  Long  Daly  he  met  me  an'  tould  me.    Sez  he : 

'  An'  ye  '11  need  to  make  haste, 
If  it 's  dhry-fut  ye  'd  find  her  this  night'     For  away 

o'er  the  hills  to  the  aist 
The  hail-showers  were   slantin'  in   sthrakes ;  an' 

thin  wanst  clane  across  wid  a  swipe 
Wint  the  lightnin'.    An' :  '  Look-a,'  sez  he, '  there 's 

Saint  Pether  a-kindlin'  his  pipe  ; 


86  LAST  TIME  AT  M'GURK'S 

That  'ill  take  a  good  sup  to  put  out.'     An',  thrue 

for  him,  he  'd  scarce  turned  his  back, 
Whin  it  settled  to  polther  an'  pour,  an'  the  sky 

overhead  grew  as  black 
As  the  botthomless  pit ;  not  a  stim  could  I  see, 

nor  a  sight  o'  the  baste, 
But,  sthravadin'  about  in  the  bog,  I  slipped  into  a 

hole  to  me  waist, 
An'  was  never  so  nigh  dhrownin'  dead,  forby  bein' 

dhrenched  to  the  skin  ; 
So  I  groped  me  way  home  thro'  the  dark  in  the 

teeth  of  a  freezin'  win'. 
An'  next  mornin'  I  couldn't  move  finger  nor  fut, 

all  me  limbs  were  that  sore, 
And  I  lay  there  a-ravin'  like  wild  in  me  bed  for  a 

month  an'  more ; 
For  me  head  was  on  fire,  an'  the  pains  was  like 

gimlits  an'  knives  in  me  bones, 
Till  the  neighbours  a-goin'  the  road  'ud  be  hearin' 

me  groans  an'  me  moans. 


LAST  TIME  AT  M'GURK'S  87 

An'  thin,   whin  I  'd   over'd   the  worst,   as  the 

Docther  'd  not  looked  for  at  all, 
Sure,  the  strenth  was  gone  out  o'  me  clane,  an'  I 

scarcely  was  able  to  crawl, 
An'  that  stooped,   any  rapin'-hook 's   sthraighter 

than  me,  an'  the  jints  o'  me  stift, 
An'  me  fingers  as  crookt  as  the  claws  of  a  kite,  wid 

no  use  in  thim  lift ; 
An'  whin  first  I  got  on  me  ould  brogues,  I  stuck 

fast  like  a  wheel  in  a  rut, 
I  seemed  raisin'  the  weight  o'  the  world  every  time 

that  I  lifted  me  fut 


VII 

So  I  sat  in  the  door  not  long  afther,  whin  Judy 

O'Neill  comes  by, 

An' :  '  Bedad,   Mick  Flynn,   ye  're   an  ould   man 
grown,'  sez  she ;  an' :  '  Git  out ! '  sez  I. 


88  LAST  TIME  AT  M'GURK'S 

But  as  soon  as  she  'd  passed  I  stepped  round  to 

the  field  that  the  lads  were  in, 
For  I  thought  I  'd  been  idlin'  enough,  an'  'twas  time 

I  set  to  it  agin. 
They  were  diggin'  the  first  of  the  praties  ;  I  smelt 

thim  'fore  ever  I  came, 
An'  I  dunno  a  pleasanter  scent  in  the  world  than 

the  smell  o'  thim  same, 
Whin  ye  thrust  down  your  spade  or  your  fork,  an' 

ye  turn  thim  up  hangin'  in  clumps, 
Wid  the  skins  o'  thim  yeller  an'  smooth,  an'  the 

clay  shakin'  off  thim  in  lumps. 
They  'd  a  creel  on  the  bank  be  the  gate,  an'  Pat 

called  from  his  end  o'  the  dhrill 
To  be  bringin'  it  up  where  he  was,  for  he  wanted 

another  to  fill ; 
And  I  thought  to  ha'  lifted  it  light,  but  I  'd  betther 

ha'  let  it  alone, 
Tho'  'twas  hardly  three-parts  full,  an'  'ud  hould 

but  a  couple  o'  stone  ; 


LAST  TIME  AT  M'GURK'S  89 

For  I  hadn't  the  strenth  to  hoist  it,  and  over  it 

wint  wid  a  pitch, 
An'  there  like  a  sthookaun  I  stood,  an'  the  praties 

rowled  in  the  ditch. 
But  Pat,  whin  he  seen  I  was  vexed,  up  he  come 

an'  laid  hould  o'  me  arm, 
An'  he  bid  me  never  to  mind,  for  there  wasn't  a 

ha'porth  o'  harm. 
An'  sez  I :  '  I  'm  not  able  for  aught.'     An'  sez  he : 

'  Dad,  ye  Ve  worked  in  your  day 
Like  a  Trojin,  an'  now  ye  Ve  a  right  to  your  rest, 

while  we  '11  wrastle  away. 
Sure  it 's  many  a  creel  ye  Ve  loaded  afore  I  'd  the 

strenth  or  the  wit ; 
And  ye  needn't  be  throublin'  your  head,  for  there 's 

plinty  of  help  I  '11  git ; 
Here's  Larry  an'  Tim   grown  sizeable   lads,  an' 

Joe '11  soon  be  lendin'  a  hand — 
So  ye  '11  just  sit  quite  in  your  corner,  an'  see  that 

we  '11  git  on  grand.' 


90  LAST  TIME  AT  M'GURK'S 

And  he  said  it  as  kind  as  could  be,  yet  me  heart 

felt  as  heavy  as  lead, 

And  I  wint  to  the  door,  and  I  sat  in  the  sun,  but  I 
wished  I  was  dead. 


VIII 

He 's  been  always  a  good  son,  Pat,  an'  the  wife, 

there 's  no  fau't  in  his  wife, 
Sure  she's  doin'  her  best  to  keep  house  sin'  me 

ould  woman  lost  her  life ; 
But   the  throuble  she's  had — och!   the  crathur, 

small  blame  to  her  now  if  she  'd  think 
It  was  time  they  were  quit  of  a  wan  fit  for  nought 

save  to  ait  an'  to  dhrink. 
For  whiles,  whin  she's  washin'  the  praties,  or 

cuttin'  the  childher's  bread, 
I  know  be  the  look  of  her  face  she 's  rememb'rin' 

the  child  that's  dead; 


LAST  TIME  AT  M'GURK'S  91 

The  littlest,  that  died  in  last  winther,  and  often 

afore  it  died 
Did  be  askin'  its  mammy  for  bread,  an'  thin,  'cause 

she  'd  none,  it  cried  ; 
An'  the  Docther  he  said  'twas  the  hunger  had  kilt 

it ;  an'  that  was  the  case : 
Ye  could  see  thro'  its  wee  bits  of  hands,  an'  its  eyes 

were  as  big  as  its  face. 
An'  whiles  whin  I  'm  aitin'  me  crust,  /'//  be  thinkin' 

to  hear  it  cry — 
But  she,  that's  the   mother  who  bore  it — who'd 

blame  her  ?     In  throth  not  I. 
Och  !  but  that  was  the  terrible  winther,  an'  like 

to  ha'  starved  us  outright ; 
Ne'er  a  hungrier  saison  I  mind  since  the  first  o'  the 

pratie  blight ; 
An'  whine'er  wan 's  no  call  to  be  hungry,  it 's  three 

times  as  hungry  wan  feels, 
An'  so  I  that  worked  never  a  sthroke,  I  did  always 

be  great  at  me  meals. 


92  LAST  TIME  AT  M'GURK'S 

Vet  I  spared  thim  the  most  that  I  could,  for  o' 

nights  whin  I  noticed  our  heap 
O'  praties  looked  small  in  the  pot,  I  'd  let  on  I  was 

fast  asleep  ; 
So  Molly  she  'd  spake  to  the  childher,  an'  bid  thim 

to  whisht  an'  be  quite, 
For  if  gran'daddy  sted  on  asleep,  he  'd  be  wantin' 

no  supper  that  night ; 
Thin,  the  crathurs,  as  cautious  an'  cute  as  the  mice 

they  'd  all  keep  whin  they  heard, 
An'  to  think  that  the  little  childher  'd  sit  vvatchin', 

not  darin'  a  word, 
But  hush-hushin'  wan  to  the  other,  for  fear  I  might 

happin  to  wake 
And  ait  up  their  morsel  o'  food — sure  me  heart 

'ud  be  ready  to  break. 


LAST  TIME  AT  M'GURK'S  93 


IX 

Thin  I  'd  think  :  '  There 's  the  House ;  ay,  an 

thin  they  'd  be  fewer  to  starve  an'  to  stint ' ; 
Yet  I  hated  the  thought,  an'  kep'  hopin'  I  'd  maybe 

be  dead  ere  I  wint 
But  I  'm  just  afther  hearin'  this  day  what  has  settled 

me  plans  in  me  mind, 
Like  as  if  I  had  turned  round  me  face ;  and  I  won't 

go  a-lookin'  behind. 
I  'd  been  sthreelin'  about  in  the  slip  at  the  back, 

whin  I  thought  I  'd  creep  down 
An'  see  what  was  up  at  M'Gurk's,  for  it 's  weeks 

since  I  Ve  been  in  the  town  ; 
So  round  to  the  front  I  was  come,  an1  the  first 

thing  that  ever  I  seen 
Was  two  gintlemen  close  to  our  door,  an'  a  car 

standin'  down  the  boreen. 


94  LAST  TIME  AT  M'GURK'S 

And  the  wan  o'  the  two  was  a  sthranger,  a  stout 

little  man,  wid  each  square 
O'  the  checks  on  his  coateen  the  size  of  our  own 

bit  o'  field  over  there  ; 
Divil  much  to  be  lookin'  at  aither,  tho'  here  the 

lads  tould  me  as  how 
Twas  no  less  than  our  Landlord  himself,  that  we  'd 

never  set  eyes  on  till  now. 
For  away  off  in  England  he  lives,  where  they  say 

he 's  an  iligant  place 
Wid  big  walls  round  it  sevin  mile  long,  and  owns 

dozens  of  horses  to  race, 
That  costs  him  a  fortin  to  keep ;  so  whin  all  of 

his  money  is  spint, 
He  sends  word  over  here  to  the  Agint ;  an'  bids 

him  make  haste  wid  the  rint. 
An'  the  other 's  the  Agint,  I  know  him  ;  worse 

luck,  I  've  known  many  a  wan, 
An'  it 's  sorra  much  good  o'  thim  all.     I  remember 

the  carryin's  on 


LAST  TIME  AT  M'GURK'S  95 

We  'd  have  in  the  ould  times  at  home,  whin  we 

heard  he  was  comin'  his  round : 
For,  suppose  we  'd  a  calf  or  a  heifer,  we  'd  dhrive 

her  off  into  the  pound, 
Or  if  we  'd  a  firkin  of  butther,  we'd  hide  it  away  in 

the  thatch. 
Ay,   bedad,  if  we  'd  even  so  much  as  an  old  hin 

a-sittin'  to  hatch, 
We  'd  clap  her  in  under  the  bed,  out  o'  sight,  for, 

mind  you,  we  knew  right  well 
He  'd  be  raisin'  the  rint  on  us  sthraight,  if  he  spied 

that  we  'd  aught  to  sell. 
I  Ve  heard  tell  there 's  a  change  in  the  law,  an' 

the  rint  takes  three  Judges  to  fix, 
So  it  isn't  as  aisy  these  times  for  an  Agint  to  play 

thim  bad  thricks; 
I  dunno  the  rights  of  it  clear,  but  all 's  wan,  for  he 

would  if  he  could ; 
And  as  soon  as  I  seen  him  this  day,  I  was  sure 

he'd  come  afther  no  good. 


96  LAST  TIME  AT  M'GURK'S 

But  I  slipped  the  wrong  side  o'  the  bank  ere  they 

heard  me,  an'  there  I  sat  still, 
An'  they  came  an'  stood  nigh  it  to  wait,  while  their 

car  crep'  along  up  the  hill. 


And  Turner,  the  Agint,   looked   back  to   the 

house :  '  Well,  yer  Lordship,'  he  sez, 
'  That 's  a  case  for  eviction  ;  we  '11  scarce   see  a 

pinny  while  wan  o'  thim  stez. 
Why,  they  haven't  a  goose  or  a  hin,  let  alone  e'er 

a  baste  on  the  land, 
So  where  we  're  to  look  for  our  money  is  more  nor 

I  understand. 
But  in  coorse  the  man's  axin'  for  time.'     An'  sez 

t'  other,  *  Confound  him  !  in  coorse — 
'Tis  their  thrade  to  be  axin'  for  that,  if  ye  're  axin' 

a  pound  for  your  purse. 


LAST  TIME  AT  M'GURK'S  97 

They   may  have   their  damned    time,   sure,   an' 

welcome,  as  long  as  they  plase,  on'y  first 
They  '11  pay  up  or  clear  out.'     An'  the  Agint  he 

laughed  till  ye  'd  think  he  'd  ha'  burst. 
An'  sez  he,  'Thin  "clear  out"  '11  be  the  word,  and 

my  notion 's  we  '11  find  that  it  pays, 
If  we  pull  down  thim  ould  sticks  o'  cabins,  an'  put 

in  the  cattle  to  graze  ; 
Faith,  I  'd  liefer  see  sheep  on  the  land  than  the 

likes  o'  that  breed  any  day,' 
Sez  he,   pointin'  his  hand  to  the  dyke,  where  the 

childher,  poor  sowls,  were  at  play. 
An'  the  Lord  sez,  '  It 's  on'y  a  pity  we  can't  git  the 

lap  of  a  wave 
Just  for  wanst,  o'er  the  whole  o'  the  counthry ;  no 

end  to  the  throuble  'twould  save, 
And  lave  the  place  dome.'     An'  the  Agint  laughed 

hearty  ;  sez  he  :  'Our  best  start, 
Since  we   can't  git   thim   under   the   wather,   is 

sendin'  thim  over  it  smart. 


98  LAST  TIME  AT  M'GURK'S 

An'  these  Flynns  here  we  'd  imigraph  aisy  ;  they  Ve 

several  lads  nearly  grown  ; 
The  on'y  dhrawback  's  the  ould  father,  we  '11  just 

have  to  let  him  alone, 
For  the  son  sez  he 's  sheer  past  his  work,  an'  that 

niver  'ud  do  in  the  States ; 
It 's  a  burthen  he 's  been  on  their  hands  for  this 

great  while — he  '11  go  on  the  rates. 
Sure,  the  Union 's  the  place  for  the  likes  of  him,  so 

long  as  he  bides  above.' 
But  be  this  time  their  car  had  come  by,  an'  up 

wid  thim,  an'  off  they  dhruv. 


XI 

I  'd  ne'er  ha'  thought  Patsy  'd  say  that ;  an'  he 

didn't  belike — I  dunno — 

But  it's  on'y  the  truth  if  he   did.     A  burthen? 
Bedad,  I  'm  so. 


LAST  TIME  AT  M'GURK'S  99 

An'  Pat,  that 's  a  rale  good  son,  and  has  been  all 

the  days  of  his  life, 
It 's  the  quare  thanks  I  'm  givin'  him  now,  to  be 

starvin'  the  childher  and  wife. 
For  I  often  considher  a  sayin'  we  have  :  '  Whin  it 's 

little  ye  Ve  got, 
It 's  the  hunger  ye  '11  find  at  the  botthom,  if  many 

dip  spoons  in  your  pot.' 
But  if  wanst  they  were  shut  o'  meself,  an'  the  Agint 

'ud  wait  for  a  bit, 
They  might  weather  the  worst  o'  the  throuble,  an' 

keep  the  ould  roof  o'er  thim  yit. 
But  suppose   they're    put  out   afther   all,  an' 

packed  off  to  the  divil  knows  where, 
An'  I  up  away  in  the  House,  I  might  never  so 

happin  to  hear ; 
An'  I  'd  Hefer  not  know  it   for  certin.     Och !  to 

think  the  ould  place  was  a  roon, 
Wid  nought  left  save  the  rims  o'  four  walls,  that 

the  weeds  'ud  be  coverin'  soon  ; 


ioo  LAST  TIME  AT  M'GURK'S 

An'  the  bastes  o'  the  field  vvalkin'  in  ;  an'  the  hole 

where  the  hearth  was  rilled 
Wid  the  briers  ;  an'  no  thrace  o'  the  shed  that  I 

helped  me  poor  father  to  build, 
An'  I  but  a  slip  of  a  lad,  an'  that  plased  to  be 

handlin'  the  tools, 
I  'most  hammered  the  head  off  each  nail  that  I 

dhruv.     Och,  it 's  boys  that  are  fools. 


XII 

'Tis  sevin  mile   good  into  Westport ;  I  never 

could  thramp  it  so  far, 
But  Tim  Daly  dhrives  there  of  a  Friday ;  he  '11 

loan  me  a  sate  on  his  car. 
•  An'  Friday 's  to-morra,  ochone !  so  I  'm  near  now 

to  seem'  me  last 

O'  Barney,  an'  Pat,  an'  the  childher,  an'  all  the 
ould  times  seem  past. 


LAST  TIME  AT  M'GURK'S  101 

I  remimber  the  House  goin'  by  it.    It  stands  on 

a  bit  of  a  rise, 
Stone-black,  lookin'  over  the  Ian',  wid  its  windows 

all  starin'  like  eyes  ; 
And  it 's  lonesome  an'  sthrange  I  '11  be  feelin',  wid 

ne'er  a  frind's  face  to  behould  ; 
An'  the  days  'ill  go  dhreary  an'  slow.     But  I  'm 

ould,  plase  God,  I  'm  ould. 


BY  THE  BOG-HOLE 

'  Non  omni  somno  securius  exstat?* 


BY  THE   BOG-HOLE 


AY,  her  people  an'  mine  we  lived  next  door  at 

the  end  o'  the  long  boreen, 
Afore  it  runs  out  on  the  breadth  o'  the  bog  where 

the  black  land  bates  the  green  ; 
An'  Nelly's  mother  'ud  always  give  me  a  pleasant 

word  passin'  thim  by, 
As  I  dhruv  out  our  cow  of  a  mornin',  an'  meself 

scarce  her  showlder  high. 
An'  Nelly  she  'd  crawl  up  the  step,  an'  stump  afther 

me  into  the  lane, 
An'  she  'd  throt,  callin' :  ' '  Top,  Dimmy,  'top  ! '  for 

she  couldn't  run  sthraight,  or  spake  plain  ; 

105 


io6  BY  THE  BOG-HOLE 

And  her  mother 'd  say,  'Jimmy,  me  lad,  if  I  trust 

her  along  wid  ye,  thin, 
Keep  your  eye  on  her ;  mind  the  big  hole ;   for 

your  life  don't  be  lettin'  her  in.' 
So  it 's  many  a  day  I  'd  be  keepin'  me  eye  on  the 

child  an'  the  baste, 
That  had  mostly  a  mind  to  be  goin'  wherever  ye 

wanted  thim  laste ; 
An'  th'  ould  cow  'd  sthray  away  thro'  the  bog,  if 

she  couldn't  find  mischief  to  do 
Thramplin'  fences  an'  fields  ;  but  it 's  Nelly  herself 

was  the  worst  o'  the  two. 
For  ere  ever  ye  'd  know,  there  she  'd  be  like  a  scut 

of  a  rabbit  a-creep — 
She  'd  creep  faster  thim  whiles  than  she  'd  walk — 

down  the  bank  where  the  hole 's  lyin'  deep ; 
An'  it 's  thin  I  'd  the  work  o'  the  world  to  be  catchin' 

her  an'  coaxin'  her  back, 
Such  a  fancy  she  'd  tuk  to  the  place,  an'  it  lookin' 

so  ugly  an'  black, 


BY  THE  BOG-HOLE  107 

Wid  its  sides  cut  wall-sthraight  wid  the  spade,  an' 

the  wather  like  midnight  below, 
Lyin'  far  out  o'  reach  ;  overhead  all  the  storm-winds 

may  blusther  an'  blow, 
But  'tis  still  as  a  floor  o'  stone  flags,  an'  its  depth 

ye  can't  measure  noways ; 
Sure  if  Nelly  had  crep'  o'er  the  edge,  she'd  ha' 

crep'  to  the  end  of  her  days. 


IT 

But  the  years  wint  till  Nelly  'd  more  wit  than  to 

dhrown  of  herself  in  a  hole, 
An'  meself  was  a  size  to  git  work  in  the  fields ; 

yit,  fair  weather  or  foul, 
Whin  a  holiday  come  we  'd  be  out  rovin'  round  on 

the  bog,  she  an'  me, 
For  we  always  kep'  frinds  ;  and  it 's  lonesome  was 

Nell,  since  the  mother,  ye  see, 


io8  BY  THE  BOG-HOLE 

Tuk  an'  died  wan  hard  winter,  worse  luck — a  bad 

job  for  the  little  colleen — 
And  her  brothers  had  gone  to  the  States,  and  her 

father  was  fond  o'  potheen, 
And  'ud  bide  dhrinkin'  dhrops  down  at  Byrne's 

till  he  hadn't  a  thought  in  his  head  ; 
So  that,   barrin'   ould    Granny  an'   me,   all    her 

company  'd  quit  or  was  dead. 


Ill 

There 's  a  bit  of  a  hill  rises  up,  right  fornint  the 

big  hole — the  same  sort 
As  ye '11  count  be  the  dozen  in  bogs,  wid  the  grass 

on 't  fine-bladed  an'  short, 
An'  the  furzes  an'  broom  in  a  ruffle  a-top,  an'  flat 

stones  peepin'  out, 
Where  it 's  pleasant  to  sit  in  the  sun  and  be  lookin' 

around  and  about, 


BY  THE  BOG-HOLE  109 

Whin  the  bog  wid  its  stacks  and  its  pools  spreads 

away  to  the  rim  o'  the  blue 
That  lanes  over  as  clear  as  a  glass,  on'y  somehow 

wan  ne'er  can  see  thro'. 
An'  there 's  plenty  to  mind,  sure,  if  on'y  ye  look 

to  the  grass  at  your  feet, 
For  'tis  thick  wid   the   tussocks   of  heather,  an' 

blossoms  and  herbs  that  smell  sweet 
If  ye   tread   thim  ;   an'  maybe  the  white  o'  the 

bog-cotton  waved  in  the  win', 
Like  the  wool  ye  might  shear  off  a  night-moth,  an' 

set  an  ould  fairy  to  spin  ; 
Or  wee  frauns,  each  wan  stuck  'twixt  two  leaves 

on  a  grand  little  stem  of  its  own, 
Lettin'  on  'twas  a  plum  on  a  tree ;  an*  the  briers 

thrailed  o'er  many  a  stone 
Dhroppin'  dewberries,  black-ripe  and  soft,  fit  to 

melt  into  juice  in  your  hould  ; 
An'  the  bare  stones  thimselves  'ill  be  dusted  wid 

circles  o'  silver  an'  gould — 


no  BY  THE  BOG-HOLE 

Nelly  called  thim  the  moon  an'  the  sun — an'  grey 

patches  like  moss  that 's  got  froze, 
Wid  white  cups  in 't  that  take  a  red  rim  by  the 

time  we  Ve  the  sheaves  up  in  rows  ; 
I  'd  be  vexed  whin  they  turned,  for  a  sign  that  the 

summer  was  slippin'  away, 
But  poor  Nelly  was  pleased  wid  the  little  bright 

sthrakes  growin'  broader  each  day. 


IV 

So  wan  evenin' — I  know  if  I  think,  'twas  whin 

last  they  were  cuttin'  the  oats, 
Maybe  four  months  from  now,  whin  outside  past 

the  bars  there 's  an  odd  snow-flake  floats, 
But  it  seems  to  me  feelin'  a  world's  breadth  away, 

and  a  life's  lenth  ago — 
Well,  the  two  of  us  sat  on  the  hill,  an'  the  sun  was 

about  gettin'  low, 


BY  THE  BOG-HOLE  in 

An'  there  wasn't  a  ray  on  the  Ian',  for  the  dhrift  o' 

dark  cloud  overhead 
Sthretched  away  like  a  roof,  till  just  rimmin'  the 

west  ran  the  light  in  a  thread, 
Same  as  if  'twas  a  lid  liftin'  up  on  bright  hinges  ; 

an'  sorra  a  breath 
Thro'  the  leaves  or  the  grass,  for  the  win'  never 

stirred,  an'  'twas  stiller  than  death. 
An'  so  Nelly  'd  a  poppy-bud  pulled,  wid  the  red 

all  erased  up  in  the  green, 
An'  sat  smoothin'  its  leaves  on  her  lap,  till  ye  saw 

its  black  heart  in  between  ; 
An'  her  hair  curlin'  over  the  shine  of  her  eyes,  an' 

a  smile  on  her  mouth, 
As  I  knew  by  the  dint  in  her  cheek  turned  aside 

from  me.     Sure  'twas  the  truth, 
But  I  dunno  for  why  of  a  suddint  the  notion  come 

into  me  mind 
That  in  all  o'  that   bog-land  it's  Nell   was  the 

purtiest  thing  ye  could  find  ; 


ii2  BY  THE  BOG-HOLE 

An'  thinks  I  :  '  Sure  the  slip  of  a  lass,  whin  the 

days  o'  me  life  'ill  be  dark, 
Is  the  same  as  yon  glame  in  the  west  that  widout 

it  has  sorra  a  spark.' 


But  that  instant  he  stepped  round  the  end  o'  the 

turf-stack  fornint  the  boreen, 
Wid  a  scarlet  to  aquil  the  poppies  ablaze  on  his 

bit  o'  coateen, 
And  his  belts  and  his  straps  and  his  buckles  as 

white  an'  as  bright  as  could  shine — 
Whin  a  dragon-fly  sits  on  the  slant  o'  the  sun  he 

looks  somethin'  as  fine — 
Till  he  seemed  to  be  lightin'  a  dazzle  an'  glitter 

each  step  that  he  stirred  ; 
And  his  little  red  cap  set  a-top  wid  a  cock,  like 

the  crest  of  a  bird, 


BY  THE  BOG-HOLE  113 

And  his  spurs  glancin'  out  at  his  heels,  an'  the 
stripes  o'  gold  lace  down  his  sleeve  ; 

And  himself  was  just  Felix  Magrath  comin'  home 
to  his  father's  on  leave. 


VI 

The  red-coats — I  'd  seen  thim  at  Christmas,  when 

Victions  was  down  at  Drumloe, 
Standin'  watchin'  the  ould  folk  an'  childher  put 

out  in  the  flurries  o'  snow, 
And  it 's  thin  they  looked  bitther  an'  black  as  their 

powdher  an'  steel,  man  for  man, 
But — I'll    say   that    for   Felix    Magrath — find  a 

pleasanter  lad  if  ye  can. 
For  he  seemed  somehow  heartenin'  things  up,  whin 

he  stepped  along  sthraight  as  a  dart, 
Maybe  twirlin'  his  bit  of  a  stick  to  a  tune  like,  that 

dacint  an'  smart 

H 


ii4  BY  THE  BOG-HOLE 

That  ye  'd  feel,  clumpin'  on  be  his  side,  like  a  quare 

sort  o'  raggety  gawk. 
Thin  to  hear  him  discoorse  ;  ye  might  listen  from 

mornin'  till  night  to  his  talk, 
He  'd  such  stories  of  all  he  'd  beheld  in  thim  lands 

where  they  fight  wid  the  blacks, 
Where  the  curiousest  things  ye  could  think  do  be 

plenty  as  turf-sods  in  stacks. 
And  he'd  medals  that  set  him  rememb'rin'  wan 

day  whin  the  guns  let  a  roar 
From  the  ridge  o'  the  sandhills  close  by,  where 

they  'd  come  since  the  evenin'  before  ; 
An'  it 's  mountin'  they  all  were  next  minute,  an' 

waitin'  the  word  o'  command, 
Wid  his  baste  in  a  quiver  to  start,  sthrainin'  hard 

on  the  reins  in  his  hand, 
An1  thim  other  lads  passin'  thim  on  to  the  front 

till  their  hearts  were  nigh  broke, 
Thramp  an'  thramp,  wid  the  bands  playin'  march- 
tunes  ahead  thro'  the  booms  in  the  smoke ; 


BY  THE  BOG-HOLE  115 

Thin  the  bugle  rang  out — Och,  I  Ve  ne'er  heard 

the  like,  yet  wan  aisy  can  tell 
They  'd  ha'  lep'  all  the  locked  gates  of  Heaven  to 

ride  wid  that  music  to  Hell. 


VII 

So  if  Nell  tuk  a  pleasure  in  listening  the  same  as 

the  rest  o'  thim,  why 
'Twas  small  blame  to  her ;  that 's  what  I  said  to 

meself;  but  it  seemed  like  a  lie. 
An'  whine'er  I  come  home  from  me  work,  an'  seen 

never  a  sowl  be  the  hedge, 
Where  there  'd  most  whiles  be  Nelly  to  meet  me, 

but,  happen,  away  on  the  edge 
O'  the  hill-slope  a  pair  standin'  dark  'ginst  the  clear 

o'  the  sunset,  och  thin 
All  the  fire  that  was  dead  in  the  sky  seemed  flared 

up  to  a  burnin'  agin 


n6  BY  THE  BOG-HOLE 

In  the  core  o'  me  heart ;  an'  the  first  thing  I  knew 

I  'd  be  rippin'  an  oath, 
Wid  me  fingers  clenched  hard  in  a  rage,  like  as  if 

they  were  grippin'  his  throath  ; 
An'  I  'd  swear  to  meself  that  whin  wanst  he  was 

parted  from  Nelly  that  night, 
I  'd  slip  afther  him  back  to  his  place,  an'  pervoke 

him  some  way  to  a  fight, 
As  I  ready  might  do  if  I  plased,  an'  no  throuble 

about  it  at  all, 
For  it 's  aisier  risin'  a  quarrel  than  sthrikin'  a  match 

on  a  wall. 
An'  bedad,  if  it  come  to  that  work,  it's  meself 

might  be  havin'  the  pull, 
For  I  stood  a  head  taller  than  he,  and  I  'd  always 

the  strenth  of  a  bull ; 
An'  'twas  likely  enough,  if  I  masthered  him  thin, 

he  'd  take  off  out  o'  this, 
An'  leave  Nelly  an'  me  to  ourselves  as  if  naught 

had  befallen  amiss; 


BY  THE  BOG-HOLE  117 

An'  thin  Nelly  'd  percaive  there  was  more  in  the 

world  than  a  gay  bit  o'  red — 
So  thinks  I  to  meself ;   but,  sure,  musha,  wan's 

thoughts  is  like  beads  off  a  thread, 
Slippin'  each  after  each  in  a  hurry  :  an'  so  I  kep' 

considherin'  on, 
Till  the  next  thought  I  had  was  if  Nelly 'd  be 

fretted  whin  Felix  was  gone. 
For  I  knew  that  the  comfort  was  crep'  from  me 

life  like  the  light  from  the  day 
Since  she  'd  tuk  up  wid  him  ;    an'  belike  now  if 

aught  chanced  that  dhruv  him  away, 
She  'd  be  heart-broke.     An'  what  call  had  I  to  go 

vex  her  wid  comin'  between, 
Whin  she  'd   liefer  have  him  than  meself  in  me 

shows  of  ould  brogues  an'  caubeen  ? 
'  Divil  take  me,'  sez  I,  '  thin  it 's  schemin'  I  am 

to  have  Nelly  to  wake 
Wid  her  heart  every  mornin'  like  lead,  if  there 's 

lead  that  can  thrimble  and  ache, 


n8  BY  THE  BOG-HOLE 

Wid  no  pleasure  in  aught,  feelin'  lonesome  an'  lost 

in  the  world  dhrear  an'  wild, 
I  might  betther  ha'  left  her  to  dhrown,  an'  she 

on'y  an  imp  of  a  child.' 


VIII 

But  there 's   whiles   whin  the  throubles   ye  're 

dhreadin'  seem  comin'  be  conthrary  ways, 
An'  ye  '11  wondher  what  road  ye  should  turn  from 

the  worst  till  your  mind  }s  in  a  maze, 
Like  me  own,  whin  I  heard  what  the  neighbours 

were  sayin'  o'  Nelly.     Bedad, 
It's  the  lasses  were  jealous  I  know — but  they  all 

would  go  bail  Magrath's  lad 
Was  just  foolin'  the  girl  for  the  sake  o'  divarsion 

as  certin  as  fate, 
Wid  his  slootherin'  talk,  and  his  thrapesin'  afther 

her  early  an'  late, 


BY  THE  BOG-HOLE  119 

Till  she'd   come   to  no  good.     Ay,   mayhap,  it 

was  nothin'  but  envy  an'  spite, 
Yet  it  seemed  to  meself  whin  the  neighbours  called 

Felix  a  rogue,  they  said  right ; 
An'  thin  Nell  'd  got  no  mother  to  mind  her.     I 

couldn't  tell  what  to  be  at, 
For  if  all  that  they  talked  was  the  truth,  I  'd  ha' 

choked  him  as  soon  as  a  rat ; 
But  the  truth  was  as  hard  to  piece  out  as  a  page 

whin  the  half  of  it 's  torn  ; 
An'  I  'd  think  'twixt  us  both  Nell  might  fare  like 

a  little  white  rose  on  the  thorn, 
That  two  childher  '11  be  scufflin'  an'  tusslin'  to  grab, 

'cause  it 's  purty  an'  sweet, 
Till  its  laves  is  shook  off  in  a  shower,  an'  throd 

down  in  the  dust  at  their  feet. 


120  BY  THE  BOG-HOLE 


IX 

An'  thim  evenin's  I  felt  to  be  hatin'  whatever  I 

seen  or  I  heard, 
So  I  'd  slinge  away  into  the  house,  where  I  'd 

nowan  to  give  me  a  word, 
An'  the  corners  is  black  at  noonday.    But  I  couldn't 

shut  out  o'  me  sight 
How  the  west  where  the  sun  had  gone  by  would 

be  swimmin'  brimful  wid  clear  light, 
An'  as  fast  as  it  dhrained  off  the  stars  'ud  be  slippin' 

this  side  o'  the  sky, 
Like  the  rain-dhrops  that  rowl  down  and  hang  from 

the  blade-points  ;  it 's  Nelly  and  I 
'Ud  be  watchin'  thim  many  a  time  ;  an'  sure  now 

she  was  watchin'  wid  him, 
An'  what  differ  to  her  ?     But  a  wolf  whin  he 's 

tearin'  a  man  limb  from  limb 


BY  THE  BOG-HOLE  121 

Might  ha'  frindlier  feelin's  than  me,  whin  I  fancied 

the  two  o'  thim  there, 
Sthrollin'  aisy,  while  Felix  'd  be  stickin'  red  poppies 

in  Nelly's  black  hair, 
As  I  seen  him  wan  evenin',  or  pullin'  her  kingcups 

along  be  the  pool, 
An'  they  both  talkin'   low,  an'  it's  like  enough 

laughin'  at  me  for  a  fool 
That  had  tuk  off  to  sulk  be  himself.    I  'd  ha'  sworn 

I  was  hearin'  him  laugh  ; 
An'  I  wanst  grabbed  me  blackthorn  that  laned  be 

the  wall,  an'  I  snapped  it  in  half 
Like  a  withy,  ere  I  knew  what  I  done,  and  it  thick 

as  your  wristbone.     An'  thin 
There  'd  be  Granny,  that  sat  on  the  step  wid  her 

knittin',  would  keep  peerin'  in, 
Thinkin'  maybe  I  'd  speak  to  her  pleasant  some 

while  ;  for  the  crathur  was  scared, 
An'  she  dursn't  so  much  as  be  askin'  what  ailed 

me  ;  but  little  I  cared, 


122  BY  THE  BOG-HOLE 

Or  it 's  plased  in  a  manner  I  was  wid  the  notion 

I  'd  somebody  vexed  ; 
An'  I  'd  often  scarce  open  me  lips,  good  or  bad, 

from  wan  light  till  the  next. 
Och,  but  slow  wint  the  time,  an'  I  crouched  in  the 

dark  like  a  baste  in  his  lair, 
Ragin'  crueler  than  bastes,  barrin'  divils.      Sure 

mad  ye  'd  go,  mad  wid  despair, 
If  ye  hadn't  the  thought  that  the  end  o'  the  end, 

whatsoe'er  may  befall, 
Is"  nought  else  save  a  paice  and  a  quiet,  where 

ye  '11  disremember  it  all. 


Well,  wan  night,  comin'  home  agin  sundown,  I 

met  wid  some  girls  at  the  gate 
Beyant   Reilly's,   an'  Biddy    O'Loughlin :  'Och 
Jimmy,'  sez  she,  '  man,  ye  're  late  ; 


BY  THE  BOG-HOLE  123 

For  we  seen  thim  just  now,  passin'  by  near  the 

pool  at  the  fut  o'  the  hill, 
Your  sweetheart  an'  her  sweetheart,  thick  as  two 

thieves.     Ye  might  find  thim  there  still, 
If  ye  stirred  yourself/  sez  she.     Sez  I :  '  Find  a 

sweetheart,  me  lass,  o'  your  own, 
And  it 's  thin  ye  '11  be  maybe  contint  to  let  other 

folks'  sweethearts  alone.' 
So  sez  I ;  but  I  thought  to  meself  I  'd  turn  back 

be  the  way  that  I  came, 
An'  keep  out  o'  the  sight  o'  the  hole.     But  it 's 

there  I  wint  sthraight  all  the  same. 


XI 

There  were  showers  about  on  the  bog,  an'  the 

blast  risin'  up  wid  a  keen 

Dhruv  the  wet  in  me  eyes  as  I  come  towards  the 
hole  till  the  slope  falls  between  ; 


124  BY  THE  BOG-HOLE 

And  I  tuk  a  look  round,  sharp  an'  quick,  as  ye  'd 

touch  a  red  coal  wid  your  hand — 
Ne'er  a  sign  of  him — nowan  but  Nell — sure  a  light 

seemed  to  slip  o'er  the  land. 
But  it 's  kneelin'  she  was  on  the  edge,  stoopin' 

low  o'er  the  blackness  widin, 
And  I  called  to  her :   '  Mind  yourself,  Nell ! '  for 

to  see  her  ran  could  thro'  me  skin. 
But  wid  that  she  lept  up  to  her  feet,  an'  just  ready 

she  stood  for  a  spring, 
Never  liftin'  her  eyes  from  the  wather.  So  sthraight 

as  a  stone  from  a  sling 
I  was  down  the  hill-side,  an'  I  dhragged  her  away, 

tho'  it 's  past  what  ye  'd  think 
How  she  sthrove  in  me  arms ;  I  was  hard  set  to 

hold  her  off  safe  from  the  brink. 
Thin  she  tuk  to  stan'  still  of  a  suddint,  an'  sez  to 

me  soft  like  an'  low  : 
'For  the  love  o'  the  Mother  o'  Mercy,  don't  be 

keepin'  me,  lad,  let  me  go.' 


BY  THE  BOG-HOLE  125 

An'  sez  I  to  her :  '  Nelly,  me  darlint,  I  've  made  up 

me  mind  in  the  nights 
That  I  'd  give  ye  to  Felix  Magrath ;  for,  sure,  how 

should  I  grudge  you  by  rights, 
If  it's  him  your  heart's  set  on?     I  '11  keep  meself 

quite  ;  there 's  no  more  to  be  said. 
But  yon  ugly   black   hole — och,  it 's   often    I  've 

promised  your  mother  that 's  dead 
I  'd  ne'er  let  that  git  hold  o'  ye.     Time  and  agin 

I  '11  ha'  hauled  ye  along 
Up  this  bank,  an'  ye  fightin'  as  fierce  as  a  kitten, 

an'  nearly  as  sthrong, 
And  abusin'  me  all  ye  could  think,  in  the  rage  o' 

ye.     Now,  be  me  sowl, 
I  'd  not  keep  ye  from  wan  that  was  pleasant  an' 

kind,  but  I  '11  chate  the  black  hole.' 
So  sez  I ;  but  sez  she  wid  a  cry  that  was  like  a 

wild  bird's  on  the  air  : 
"Tis  to  Felix  I  'm  goin',  to  Felix,  that's  lyin'  an' 

dhrownin'  down  there.' 


126  BY  THE  BOG-HOLE 


XII 

Och,  the  world   gave  a  reel ;   och,  the   words 

meant  no  more  than  the  thunderclaps  mane, 
Thro'  the  roar  in  me  ears,  till  I  saw  thim  black 

sods  that  were  soft  wid  the  rain 
All  fresh  thrampled,  an'  scrawmed  on  the  edge  were 

the  prints  left  where  somewan  had  gript 
For  dear  life  wid  his  fingers — God  help  him  whin 

heavy  he  grew,  an'  they  slipt, 
And  he  dug  his  nails  hard — an'  they  slipt.     An'  in 

Nelly's  own  bit  of  a  hand, 
That  I  'd  caught,  was  a  scrap  o'  gold  lace ;   an' 

his  cap  wid  its  bright-shinin'  band 
Hung  there  waved  on  a   brier ;  but  the   wather 

lay  smooth.     An'  sez  I :  '  In  God's  name, 
What  was  that  ye  said,   Nelly  ? '     An'   sez  she  : 

'  'Twas  but  now  ;  he  was  here  whin  I  came. 


BY  THE  BOG-HOLE  127 

An'  sez  he,  whin  the  rain-dhrops  began  :  "  Now 

the  fine  weather 's  broke,  I  '11  be  sworn, 
But  it 's  lasted  as  long  as  me  leave,  for  I  'm  off  to 

the  Curragh  the  morn." 
So  sez  I  :  "Is  it  that  soon  ye '11  be  goin'?"    An' 

sez  he  :  "  Sure,  if  longer  I  'd  stay, 
What  at  all  would  the  wife  there  be  doin'  ?   She  'd 

think  that  I  'd  scooted  away  ; 
Och,  it 's  ragin'  she  'd  be  like  the  mischief.     But, 

Nelly,"  sez  he,  "  wife  or  no, 
Ye  're  the  purtiest  girl  I  e'er  seen,  an'  ye  '11  give 

me  a  kiss  ere  I  go." 
But  I  pushed  him  away,  and  I  sez :  "  Ne'er  a  kiss 

ye  '11  be  gittin'  from  me." 
An'  I  turned  to  run  home,  an'  the  sky  'd  grown  so 

dark  that  I  scarcely  could  see. 
Thin  he  tuk  a  step  back — sure  belike  he  forgot 

he  stood  close  to  the  bank — 
An'  he  fell,  an'  he  held  to  the  edge,  but  he  dhropped 

in  the  wather  an'  sank. 


i28  BY  THE  BOG-HOLE 

An'  he 's  dhrownin' — leave  go  o'  me,  Jimmy — ye 

stookawn — I  'd  aisy  jump  down — 
It 's  your  fau't  if  ye  hinder  me  savin'  him — your 

doin'  for  lettin'  him  dhrown, 
That 's  me  sweetheart.     Och,  Felix,'  sez  she, '  I  'd 

give  body  an'  sowl  for  your  life, 
Felix  darlint.'     I  knew  it  afore,  yet  to  hear  her 

seemed  twistin'  a  knife 
That  was  stuck  in  me  heart.     But  I  held  her  the 

closer.     I  've  learnt  since  I  've  thried 
How  a  man  can  hold  Heaven  an'  Hell   in  wan 

grip.     Thin  most  piteous  she  cried, 
An'  she  snatched  her  two  hands  out  o'  mine  to 

her  throat,  an'  seemed  gaspin'  for  breath, 
An'  her  head  dhrooped  aside,  an'  she  lay  in  me 

arms  like  the  image  o'  death. 


BY  THE  BOG-HOLE 


129 


XIII 

But  'tis  all   in  a   mist   afther  thin.     First  the 

neighbours  come  plutherin'  round, 
Callin'  wan  to  the  other  that  Nelly  was  dead,  an' 

that  Felix  was  dhrowned. 
An'  the  polis  thramped  black  thro'  the  glames  of  a 

moon  that  was  takin'  to  rise, 
An'  thin  somebody  said  :   '  Sure  he 's  murthered 

her  sweetheart  before  the  girl's  eyes.' 
Was  it  that  set  the  win'   howlin'  'Murther!'  all 

over  the  land  in  the  dark  ? 
An'  they  axed  me  a  power  o'  questions,  an'  fitted 

me  fut  in  a  mark 
On  the  bank.     But  it's  little  I  heeded  whatever 

they  'd  do  or  they  'd  say, 
For  thin  Nelly  was  come  to  her  sinses,  an'  ravin' 

an'  moanin'  away, 


130  BY  THE  BOG-HOLE 

An'  kep'  biddin'  thim  hinder  me  dhrownin'  the  lad 

in  the  hole  be  the  hill. 
So  sez  I  to  meself  whin  I  heard  her :  '  I  '11  let  thim 

believe  what  they  will. 
I  '11  say  naught,  an'  the  kinder  they  '11  thrate  her 

belike.'     So  I  just  held  me  tongue. 
An'  some  chaps   began   booin'  an'  shoutin'   the 

villin  'd  a  right  to  be  hung. 
An'  his  mother  wint  callin'  him  soft,  lettin'  on  he 

was  hid  for  a  joke ; 
But  th'  ould  father  I  'd  seen  shake  his  fist  at  me 

over  the  heads  o'  the  folk  : 
Troth,  as  long  as  the  life 's  in  me  body  he  '11  ne'er 

git  a  minute  o'  paice. 
And  I  seen  Granny  mopin'  about  wid  the  fright 

puckered  up  in  her  face. 
Och,  she  '11  starve,  now,  the  crathur,  she  '11  starve  ; 

that 's  the  throuble  I  'm  lavin'  behind. 
Did  I  see?     I 'm  scarce  certin,  but  since,  I'll  be 

seein'  it  oft  in  me  mind, 


BY  THE  BOG-HOLE  131 

What  they  dhrew  up  all  dhrippin',  up  out  o'  the 

wather  that  shivered  an'  spun 
In  black  rings,  hauled  up  slow  like  a  log,  stiff  an' 

stark,  an'  laid  down  where  the  sun 
Was  just  rachin'  to  twinkle  the  dew  on  the  grass. 

Whin  ye  looked  where  that  lay, 
All  the  world  seemed  no  more  than  a  drift  o'  deep 

night  round  a  hand's-breadth  o'  day. 
But  it 's  clearer  I  see  him  come  stepped  thro'  the 

sunset  in  glimmers  o'  gould, 
Than  that  wanst,  sthretched  his  lenth  there,  stone- 
still,  wid  thim  black  snaky  weeds,  wet  an'  could, 
Thrailin'  round  him.     Her  darlint,  her  darlint — I 

hear  that  asleep  and  awake ; 
I  'd  a  right  to  quit  hearin'  it  now,  whin  he  '11  listen 

no  more  than  she  '11  spake. 


1 32  BY  THE  BOG-HOLE 


XIV 

For  they  tould  me  this  day  little  Nelly  had  died 

o'  the  fever  last  night, 
An'   the    frettin' ;   so    nothin'    that    matthers   a 

thraneen  's  left  under  the  light 
What's  the  differ  if  people  believe  'twas  mcself 

shoved  him  into  the  pool  ? 
They  can't  help  her  or  harm  her.     But,  faith,  sir, 

ye  '11  think  me  a  powerful  fool, 
Or  ye'd  scarce  have  the  face   to  be  biddin'  me 

spake  out  the  truth  now,  afore 
Tis  too  late  ;  an'  yourself  sittin'  there  tellin'  lies 

this  last  half-hour  an'  more, 
Wid  your  little  black  book  full  o'  blatheremskyte 

as  its  leaves  is  o'  print ; 
Sure,  I  'd  heard  all  your  stories  ;  an'  sorra  a  wan 

ye  Ve  the  wit  to  invint 


BY  THE  BOG-HOLE  133 

That  'ill  show  folk  the  sinse  o'  the  life  where  they've 

come,  an'  the  death  where  they  '11  go, 
If  there's  sinse  in't  at  all ;  wan  thing's  certin  :  it 

isn't  the  likes  o'  yez  know — 
Wid  your  chapels  an'  churches,  Heaven  walled  up 

in  each,  an'  Hell's  blazes  all  round. 
Och,  the  Divil  /  keep  is  contint  plaguin'  crathurs 

that  bide  above  ground, 
Widout  blatherin'  afther  thim  into  the  dark ;  that's 

the  Divil  for  me  ; 
Tho'  he  wouldn't  suit  you,  sir :  the  folk 's  aisier 

frighted  wid  things  they  can't  see. 
But  just  leave  me  in  paice  wid  your  glory  an' 

joy — they're  as  bad  as  the  rest. 
If  there 's  anythin'  manes  me  a  good  turn  at  all, 

let  it  give  me  what 's  best — 
The  great  sleep,  that 's  all  sleep,  ne'er  a  fear  wan 

could  wake,  ne'er  a  thought  to  creep  in  ; 
Ne'er   a  dhrame— or   I  'd  maybe  hear  Nelly  call 

Felix  her  darlint  agin. 


PAST  PRAYING  FOR 

OR,  THE  SOUPER'S  WIDOW 

'  Horribili  super  aspectu  mortalibus  ins  tans.' 


PAST  PRAYING  FOR 

OR,  THE  SOUPER'S1  WIDOW 

(A.D.  184—) 

I 
SURE  he  'd  never  ha'  done  it,  not  he,  if  I  'd  on'y 

but  held  o'  me  tongue  ; 
Och,  the  fool  that  I  was,  the  black  fool — for  the 

same  I  'd  deserve  to  be  hung  ; 
But,  bedad  thin,  the  tongue  o'  ye 's  harder  than 

aught  in  the  world  else  to  hould, 
An'   that   mornin'    we    all    was   disthracted    an' 
perished  wid  hunger  an'  could. 

1  Souper  is  a  term  applied  to  the  few  Irish  Catholic  peasants  who, 
during  famine  years,  professed  Protestantism  in  order  to  obtain  the 
relief,  often  intrusted  for  distribution  to  the  clergy  of  the  then 
Established  Church,  who  occasionally  made  a  grant  conditional 
upon  attendance  at  their  services,  etc.,  though  as  a  rule  acting 
impartially  and  humanely. 

137 


138  PAST  PRAYING  FOR 


II 

It  was  right  in  the  worst  o'  the  famine,  the  first 

years  the  praties  wint  black — 
Tho'  ye  're  scarce  of  an  age,  Sisther  Frances,  to 

remember  o'  things  so  far  back  ; 
But  in  coorse  ye  Ve  heard  tell  o'  thim  times,  whin 

the  people  was  dyin'  be  the  score, 
Ay,  be  hundrids  an'  thousinds,  the  like  was  ne'er 

seen  in  the  counthry  before. 
An'  what  else  should  the  crathurs  ha'  done,  wid 

the  food  o'  thim  rotted  to  dirt  ? 
Och,  to  see  thim — ye  'd  meet  ne'er  a  man  but  his 

face  was  as  white  as  his  shirt 
And  ourselves  had  been  starved  all  the  winther,  the 

childher,  an'  Micky,  an'  me, 
An'  poor  Micky's   ould    mother,  till,   comin'  on 

spring,  not  a  chance  could  we  see ; 


PAST  PRAYING  FOR  139 

For  there  wasn't  a  house  far  or  near  where  they  'd 

give  ye  the  black  o'  your  eye, 
And  our  Praste  he  was  down  wid  the  fever,  an' 

clane  ruinated  forby. 


Ill 

So  it 's  rale  delighted  we  were  on  that  evenin' 

Pat  Murphy  brought  word 
Plow  the  people  o'  Lunnon  had  sint  some  relief  to 

our  townland  he  heard  ; 
Relief — that  was  oatmale,  an'  loaves,  an'  a  grand 

sup  o'  broth  in  a  bowl, 
An'  to  git  it  ye  'd  stip  down  to  Parson,  who  'd  tuk 

to  disthribit  the  whole. 
So  full  early  we  started  next  day,  sin'  the  road 's 

a  long  sthretch  to  his  place, 
An'  we  hadn't  a  scrap  in  the  house  but  a  crust  for 

the  childher.     And  in  case 


140  PAST  PRAYING  FOR 

We  got  out  the  big  bag  for  the  male,  Mick  an'  I, 

while  the  rest,  lookin'  on, 
Did  be  wishin'  we'd   bring   it  back   full,   an'  a- 

wondhrin'  how  long  we  'd  be  gone. 
Sure,  the  laste  o'  thim  all,  little  Larry,  that  scarce 

was  a  size  to  run  sthraight, 
Tuk  a  notion  to  come  wid  us  too,  whin  he  heard 

'twas  for  somethin'  to  ait. 
I  remember  the  look  of  it  yit,  skytin'  afther  us  the 

lenth  o'  the  lane. 

Thin  I  mind,  comin'  into  the  town,  meetin'  cart- 
loads and  cart-loads  o'  grain, 
That  Lord  Athmore  was  sindin'  in  sthrings  to  be 

shipped  off  from  Westport  by  say  ; 
An'  the  people  stood  watchin'  thim  pass  like  as  if 

'twas  a  corpse  on  its  way. 
An'  sez  Mick,  whin  we  met  thim  :  '  Look,  Norah,' 

sez  he, '  that 's  not  aisy  to  stand  : 
It 's  the  lives  of  our  childher  th'  ould  naygur  's 

a-cartin'  off  out  o'  the  land.' 


PAST  PRAYING  FOR  141 

An'  sez  I,  just  to  pacify  Mick  :  '  Thin  good  luck  to 

the  folks  as  ha'  sint 
What  'ill  keep  o'  the  sowls  in  their  bodies ;  if  we 

can  but  do  that  I  'm  contint' 


IV 

But,  och,  Sisther  darlin',  at  Parson's  we  got  sorra 

a  bit  afther  all ; 
Not  a  taste  in  the  world  save  the  smell  o'  the  soup 

that  was  sthrong  in  the  hall. 
For  whin  Parson  come  out  from  his  breakfast,  he 

said  the  relief  that  he  'd  got 
Was  for  thim  who  wint  reg'lar  to  church — where 

he  'd  ne'er  seen  a  wan  of  our  lot ; 
An'  he  'd  liefer  throw  bread  to  the  dogs  than  to 

childher  o'  papists,  whose  thricks 
Were  no  better  than  haythins'.  brought  up  to  be 

worshippin'  ould  bits  o'  sticks. 


142  PAST  PRAYING  FOR 

Howsome'er,  if  we  'd  give  him  our  word  we  'd  attind 

the  next  Sunday,  why  thin 
He  'd  considher.     But  who  could  ha'  promised  the 

like  ?    Such  a  shame  and  a  sin  : 
Turn  a  souper  in  sight  o'  thim  all,  an'  throop  off  to 

the  place  where  they  curse 
The  ould  Pope,  an'  the  Virgin,  an'  jeer  at  the  Mass 

— why,  what  haythin  'd  do  worse  ? 
Yet  that  hape  o'  big  loaves.    Sisther  Frances,  thim 

folk 's  in  a  manner  to  blame 
Who  know  whin  ye  're  starvin'  an'  tempt  ye.     So 

we  wint  back  the  way  that  we  came. 
But,  ochone,  it  seemed  double  the  lenth,  an'  it 's 

never  a  word  Micky  said, 
An'  the  ould  empty  bag  on  me  arm  was  that  light 

it  felt  heavy  as  lead  ; 
An'  the  childher,  that  ran  out  to  meet  us  as  far  as 

the  top  o'  the  hill, 
Whin  they  found  we  'd  brought  nothin'  at  all — I 

could  cry  now  to  think  o'  thim  still. 


PAST  PRAYING  FOR  143 


An'  twyst  afther  that  Mick  wint  down  there  to 

thry  if  a  bit  could  be  had, 
But  onless  that  we  promised  to  turn,  not  a  scrapeen 

we  'd  git  good  or  bad. 
Och,  the  long  hungry  days.     So  wan  mornin'  we  'd 

ate  all  the  breakfast  o'er  night, 
And  I  hoped  we  'd  be  late  wakin'  up,  but  it  seemed 

cruel  soon  gittin'  light. 
An'  the  March  win'  was  ice,  an'  the  sun  on'y  shinin 

to  show  it  its  road, 
An'  the  fire  was  gone  out  on  us  black,  an'  no  turf 

till  wan  thramped  for  a  load. 
Thin  the  childher,  an'  Mick's  mother  herself,  were 

that  starvin',  the  crathurs,  an'  could, 
That  they  all  fell  to  keenin'  together  most  woeful, 

the  young  an'  the  ould  ; 


144  PAST  PRAYING  FOR 

Until  Mick,  that  was  lyin'  in  bed  for  the  hunger, 

an'  half  the  week  long 
Had  scarce  tasted  a  bit,  he  laned  up  on  his  elbow 

to  ax  what  was  wrong. 
An'  sez  I — God  forgive  me,  'twas  just  the  first 

thing  that  come  into  me  head — 
'Sure  it's  cryin'  they  are,  man,'  sez   I,  'for  the 

want  of  a  mouthful  o'  bread, 
And  it 's  dyin'  they  may  be  next  thing,  for  what 

help  I  can  see.     Och,  it 's  quare, 
But  if  Parson  had  knowed  how  we  're  kilt,  an'  ye  'd 

on'y  ha'  spoken  him  fair, 
He'd   allow  us  a  thrifle  at  laste.'     An'  sez  he: 

'  Woman,  whisht !  what 's  the  use  ? 
I  might  spake  him  as  fair  as  ye  plase,  or  might 

give  him  the  heighth  of  abuse, 
All  as  wan,  he 's  that  bitther  agin  us.     But  throth 

will  I  stand  it  no  more ; 
I  '11  turn  souper  this  day  for  the  male.'     And  he 

ups  wid  himself  off  the  floor  ; 


PAST  PRAYING  FOR  145 

For  'twas  Sunday  that  mornin',  worse  luck  :  '  It 's 

a  sin,  sure/  sez  he,  '  I  know  well, 
'Siver,  sooner  than  watch  thim  disthroyed,  I  'd  say 

prayers  to  the  Divil  in  Hell,' 
Sez  he,  goodness   forgive  him — but,  mind  you, 

meself 's  every  ha'porth  as  bad, 
For  thin,  watchin'  him  off  down  the  lane,  I  dunno 

was  I  sorry  or  glad. 


VI 

And    he    wint,   sure   enough,   to    the    church. 

Widdy  Mahon  she  tould  me  next  day 
How  she  'd  gone  there  herself  for  the  victuals,  an' 

met  wid  him  comin'  away  ; 
And  how  afther  the  service  they  stepped  up  to 

Parson's  to  thry  what  they  'd  git, 
An'  they  got  a  half  loaf,  an'  the  full  o'  the  male- 
bag  ;  an'  never  a  bit 
K 


146  PAST  PRAYING  FOR 

Would  he  touch,  but  made  off  wid  him  sthraight, 
tho'  she  said  he  seemed  hard-set  to  crawl — 

Och,  ye  see  'twas  for  us  that  he  turned,  for  him- 
self he  'd  ne'er  do  it  at  all. 

An'  it's  wishful  he  was  to  slip  home  in  a  hurry, 
poor  lad,  wid  his  pack, 

An'  to  bring  us  the  best  that  he  had.  But  och, 
Sisther,  he  never  got  back. 


VII 

For  the  boys  comin'  up  from  the  Mass  down  at 

Moyna,  a  while  later  on, 
Found  him  dhropped  of  a  hape  be  the  path  past 

Kilogue  wid  the  life  of  him  gone  ; 
An'  th'  ould  male-bag  gripped  close  in  his  hand, 

that  he  thought  to  ha'  carried  us  home. 
Och,  I  mind  it,  the  place  where  he  lay,  'tis  the 

lonesomest  road  ye  can  roam, 


PAST  PRAYING  FOR  147 

Wid  the  bog  black  an'  dhreary  around   ye,  an' 

sorra  a  wall  or  a  hedge, 

Sthretchin'  out  till  the  hill-top  lifts  up  like  a  fear- 
ful great  face  o'er  the  edge ; 
An'  the  breadths  o'  the  big  empty  sky,  wid  no  end, 

look  as  far  as  ye  will, 
Seem  just  dhrawin'  an'  dhrainin'  your  life  out,  if 

weak-like  ye  're  feelin'  an'  ill ; 
An'  it 's  that  way  poor  Mick  was.     Och,  Sisther, 

there 's  scarcely  a  day 's  gone  by 
In  the  years  ever  since,  but   I'm   thinkin'  how 

desolit  he  happint  to  die, 
And  I   dhrame  it  o'  nights — be  himself,  starin' 

lonesome  an'  lost  'nathe  thim  skies, 
Wid  the  could   creepin'   into   his  heart,  an'  the 

cloud  comin'  over  his  eyes, 
An'  that  sin  on  his  sowl — would  ye  say  there 's  a 

chance  for  him  ?     Look,  now,  at  me, 
Wid   a  bed  to  die  aisy  on  here  in  the  House, 

betther  off,  sure,  than  he, 


148  PAST  PRAYING  FOR 

An'  me  fau't  just  as  bad.     Cock  me  up !  to  lie 

here  where  I  've  help  widin  call, 
An'  poor  Mick  out  o'  rache  on  the  road — where 's 

the  manin'  or  sinse  in 't  at  all  ? 


VIII 

Ay,  in  troth,  'twas  no  thing  to  go  do ;  ay,  a 

scandal  it  was  and  a  sin  ; 
But  mayhap  they  'd  scarce  judge  him  so  hard  if 

they  knew  all  the  sthraits  we  were  in. 
There 's  the  Mother  o'  Mercy,  sez  I  to  meself,  sure, 

it 's  childher  she 's  had — 
May  they  ne'er  want  the  bite  or  the  sup,  if  she  '11 

spake  a  good  word  for  me  lad. 
Och,  me  head 's  gittin'  doitered  an'  quare,  or  I  'd 

know  they've  tuk  off  out  o'  this, 
And    is   settled   in   glory   above,   where   there's 

nought  can  befall  them  amiss. 


PAST  PRAYING  FOR  149 

But  suppose  she  remembers  her  time  down  below, 

if  she  even  lived  where 
The  ould  blight  never  come  on  their  praties  an' 

dhruv  the  whole  land  to  despair, 
Yet  I'm  thinkin'  there's  always  been  plenty  o' 

throuble  about  on  this  earth, 
An'  for  sure  'twill  ha'  happint  her  whiles  to  ha' 

never  a  sod  on  the  hearth, 
Or  a  scrap  for  the  pot,  an'  the  childher  around 

her  all  famished  an'  white, 
An'  they  cryin',  an'  she  nothin'  to  give  them,  save 

bid  them  to  whisht  an'  be  quite. 


IX 


But,  indeed,  for  that  matther,  the  Lord,  who  'd 

enough  to  contind  wid  those  times, 
Might  ha'  some   sort  o'  notion  himself  how  the 
poor  people 's  tempted  to  crimes, 


150  PAST  PRAYING  FOR 

Whin  they're  watchin'  their  own  folk  a-starvin', 

an'  no  help  for  it,  strive  as  they  may. 
For  himself  set  a  dale  by  his  mother,  accord  in'  as 

I  've  heard  say, 
An'  remembered  her  last  thing  of  all  in  the  thick 

of  his  throuble,  an'  thought 
To  make  sure  she  'd  ha'  some  wan  to  care  her  an' 

heed  that  she  wanted  for  nought, 
An'  be  keepin'  the  roof  o'er  her  head  while  she 

lived,  all  the  same  as  her  son — 
But,  ye  see,  he'd  a  frind  he  could  trust  to,  an' 

Micky,  the  crathur,  had  none. 
An'  that  same  would  be  vexin'  his  heart  while  he 

lay  dyin'  there  on  the  road  ; 
For  the  sorra  a  sowl  would  be  left  in  the  world  to 

purtect  us,  he  knowed ; 
An'   I    mind    when   the   fever  he  had,  an'  was 

wandh'rin'  a  bit  in  his  head, 
He  kep'  ravin'  continyal  as  how  'twas  desthro/ed 

we  'd  be  wanst  he  was  dead. 


PAST  PRAYING  FOR  151 

An'  poor  Mick  was  that  kind  in  his  heart,  he  'd 

be  put  past  his  patience  outright 
Whin  th'  ould  mother  an'  childher  was  frettin'  wid 

hunger  from  mornin'  till  night ; 
An'  it 's  that  was  the  raison  he  done  it — nought 

else.     So,  belike,  if  above 
They'd  considher  the  hardships  he  met,  till  its' 

desprit,  bedad,  he  was  dhruv, 
An'  no  hope  o'  relief  for  the  crathurs  at  home, 

mind  you,  barrin'  he  wint 
An'  let  on  a  bit  now  an'  agin — they'd  believe 

'twas  no  harm  that  he  mint ; 
An'  that  wan  sin  he  done,  an'  he  starvin',  they  'd 

maybe  forgive  an'  forget — 
Och,  Sisther   Frances,  me  honey,  would  ye  say 

there 's  a  chance  for  him  yet  ? 


MISS  HONOR'S  WEDDING 

OUv  iJ.'&.KO'uffa.vr'  dprlus  fyet,  ytvai, 


MISS  HONOR'S  WEDDING 


OULD  Sir  Maurice's  youngest  daughther,  do  I 

mind  her,  Sir,  did  ye  say  ? 
Miss  Honor  is  it  ?    Och,  sure  the  same  as  I  'd  seen 

her  but  yistherday ; 
And  her  weddin' — Ay,  Sir,  her  weddin'  I  said. 

How  long  since  ?     Well,  I  dunn6, 
But  a  matter  o'  ten  year  back  belike ;  anyway  'tis 

wan  while  ago. 

II 

We  thought   little  enough  o'  the  match  here 

below  in  the  town  ;  people  said 
Miss  Honor  'd  a  right  to  ha'  looked  at  home,  if  so 
be  she  'd  a  mind  to  wed. 

155 


156  MISS  HONOR'S  WEDDING 

There  was  plinty  o'  betther  than  he  did  be  afther 

her  thin,  ye  '11  be  bound, 
An"  she  reckoned  the  greatest  beauty  in  the  sevin 

counties  around. 
Yet  she  needs  must  take  up  vvid  a  sthranger ;  I 

believe  'twas  from  Scotland  he  came. 
No,  Sir,  I  ne'er  chanced  to  behould  him,  and  I 

disremember  his  name — 
A  big  man,  I  Ve  heard  tell,  as  yourself 's,  Sir,  an' 

pleasant  o'  speech,  but  a  bit 
Conthrary  some  whiles  in  his  temper,  an1  come  of 

a  quare  wild  set. 
Not  aquil   no  ways   to  Miss  Honor:   sure,  whin 

she  'd  be  ridin1  the  road, 
As  many 's  the  time  I  Ve  seen  her,  be  the  look  of 

her  no  wan  'd  ha'  knowed 
Whether  'twas  to  the  Earl,  or  the  Countess,  or  ould 

Andy  the  fiddler  she  bowed ; 
A  rale  lady,  tho',  mind  ye,  some  Quality  thought 

her  proud. 


MISS  HONOR'S  WEDDING  157 


III 

Howsomever,  a  sthranger  or  no,  ould  Sir  Maurice 

was  plased  an'  content, 
An'  they  settled  to   have  a  great  weddin'  down 

here  at  the  endin'  o'  Lent ; 
An'  I  mind  the  white  sloe-flower  was  meltin'  from 

off  the  black  hedges  like  hail 
In  the  sunshine,  whin  back  to  the  Castle  the  family 

came  wid  a  dale 
O'  grand  company,  frinds  an'  relations  ;  the  house 

was  as  full  as  a  fair. 
But,  a  couple  o'  days  to  the  weddin',  Kate  Doyle, 

that 's  in  service  up  there, 

She  run  in  wid  a  message  to  say  they  'd  a  kitchen- 
maid  tuk  to  her  bed 
Wid  the  awfulest  toothache  at  all,  an'  her  cheek 

swelled  the  size  of  her  head  ; 


158  MISS  HONOR'S  WEDDING 

An'  they  wanted  a  girl  be  the  week,  an'  she  'd  spoke 

to  the  misthress  for  me — 
So  I  slipped  up  that  night  afther  supper,  as  proud 

o*  me  luck  as  could  be. 


IV 

Thin  next  day,  whin  they  'd  gone  to  the  dinner, 
Kate  showed  me  the  grandeur  they  'd  got 

Settled  out  in  the  library ;  all  of  her  presents,  a 
terrible  lot. 

Sure,  I  couldn't  be  tellin'  ye  half,  let  alone  nigh  the 
whole  o'  the  things. 

There  was  wan  o'  the  tables  was  covered  wid  brace- 
lets an'  brooches,  an'  rings  ; 

An'  the  big  silver  plates  did  be  shinin'  like  so 
many  moons  thro'  the  mist ; 

An'  the  jugs  wid  their  insides  pure  gold,  an'  the 
taypots,  an'  urns,  an'  the  rist. 


MISS  HONOR'S  WEDDING  159 

But  the  iligant  chiney — och  saints  !    the  wee  cups 

wid  their  handles  all  gilt, 
An'  their  paintin's  o'  flower-wrathes  an'  birds — if 

ye  'd  break  wan,  bedad,  ye  'd  be  kilt. 
An'  the  jewels,  och,  the  jewels  was  that  purty,  I  'd 

ha'  sted  there  star-gazin'  all  night ; 
There  was  diaminds  like  raindhrops  that  each  had 

a  fire-sparkle  somehow  alight, 
An'  the  pearls  like  as  if  they  'd  been  stringin'  the 

bits  o'  round  hailstones  for  beads, 
An'  the  red  wans  an'  green,  if  a  rainbow  was  sowin' 

ye  'd  take  thim  for  seeds  ; 
An'  the  grand  little  boxes  to  hold  thim,  all  lined 

wid  smooth  satin  below — 
'  Sure,  it 's  well  to  be  her,  Kate,'  sez  I,  an'  sez  she, 

'  Och,  begorra,  that 's  so.' 


160  MISS  HONOR'S  WEDDING 


Well,  the  morn,  be  the  best  o'  good  luck,  Kate 

an'  I  got  the  chance  to  slip  out, 
An'  away  wid  us  off  to  the  church,  where  the  folk 

was  all  standin'  about, 
Tho'   it  wanted   an   hour  to   the  time ;   an'  we 

squeezed  to  a  sate  at  the  door, 
That  was  thrailed  round  most  tasty  wid  wrathes 

that  they  'd  put  up  the  evenin'  before. 
An'  it's   there  we'd  the  greatest  divarsion   be- 

holdin',  for  afther  a  while, 
All  the  guests  was  arrivin'  an'  roostlin'  in  velvets 

an'  silks  up  the  aisle, 
Every  wan  lookin'  finer  than  t'other,  wid  sthramers 

an'  feathers  an'  lace — 
But  the  sorra  a  sign  o'  the  bridegroom  was  seen 

comin'  nigh  to  the  place. 


MISS  HONOR'S  WEDDING  161 

That  was  sthrange  now  ;  an'  folk  did  be  sayin' 
they  wondhered  what  kep'  him,  an'  thin 

It  seemed  Quality's  selves  got  onaisy,  for  ye'd 
see  the  grand  bonnits  begin 

Niddle-noddin'  together  to  whisper ;  an'  wan  o'  the 
gintlemen  'd  quit, 

Slippin'  out  be  the  little  side  door,  an'  look  down 
the  sthraight  road  for  a  bit, 

An'  come  back,  blinkin'  out  o'  the  sun,  wid  a  head- 
shake,  for  nothin'  he  'd  spied  ; 

Till  at  last,  in  the  heighth  o'  their  throuble,  in 
landed  Miss  Honor — the  bride. 


VI 

Och,  an'  she  was  a  bride !     Not  a  sowl  but  was 

wishin'  good  luck  to  her  groom. 
All  in  white,  like  a  branch  o'  wild  pear,  when  ye 
scarce  see  the  stem  for  the  bloom, 


162  MISS  HONOR'S  WEDDING 

An'  her  dark  hair  just  glintin'  wid  glames,  like  the 

bird's  wing  that  sthrakes  off  the  dew — 
Och,  a  beauty  complate,  from  the  crown  of  her 

head  to  the  point  of  her  shoe. 
Wid  her  hand  on  Sir  Maurice's  arm,  an'  he  lookin' 

as  proud  as  ye  plase, 
An'  eight  iligant   bridesmaids  behind  her,  each 

pair  dhressed  as  like  as  two  pase, 
Wid  their  booquees  o'  flowers  like  big  stars  in  a 

thrimble  o'  fern  laves  ;  ye  'd  say 
Be  the  scint  they'd   dhropped   straight  out  of 

Heaven  ;  I  remember  the  smell  to  this  day. 


VII 

But,  next  minute,   in   afther  thim  stepped   a 

sthrange  gintleman  none  of  us  knew, 
In  a  terrible  takin',  an'  pantin'  as  if  'twas  a  bellers 
he  blew ; 


MISS  HONOR'S  WEDDING  163 

Wid  a  yallerish  slip  in  his  hand  o'  the  sort  they  Ve 
for  messages  tuk 

Off  the  tiligrumph  wires,  an'  he  ups  to  where 
Quality  stared  at  him,  sthruck 

Of  a  heap  like;  and  somethin'  he  sez,  that  I 
couldn't  exactually  hear, 

But  a  somethin'  the  others  weren't  wishful  Miss 
Honor  should  guess,  that  was  clear, 

For  they  all  wint  hush-hushin' ;  however,  I  'm 
thinkin'  she  heard  what  he  said, 

And  I  saw  her  take  hold  o'  the  paper,  an'  what- 
ever was  in  it  she  read. 


VIII 

I   misdoubt  what's  the  thruth   o'   the   story. 

Some  said  all  the  while  he  'd  a  wife 
In  the  States  unbeknownst,  that  was  somehow 
found  out,  so  he  'd  run  for  his  life ; 


164  MISS  HONOR'S  WEDDING 

An'    some    said    he    was    coortin1    a    Marquis's 

daughther  in  England  instead  ; 
But  some  said  it  was  nought  on'y  just  a  fantigue 

he  'd  tuk  into  his  head. 
But  whatever  the  raison  might  be,  an'  whatever 

had  happint  amiss, 
The  end  of  it  was,  he  was  never  set  eyes  on  from 

that  day  to  this. 


IX 

Sure  now,  Quality 's  quare  in  their  ways  ;  when 

me  cousin  ran  off  to  inlist, 
Troth,  the  bawls  of  his  mother  an'  sisthers  were 

fit  to  ha'  frighted  the  best ; 
An'  last  winther  whin  Norah  Macabe  had  heard 

tell  that  her  sweetheart  was  dhrowned, 
It's  her  scrames  'ud  ha'  terrified   nations — ye'd 

hear  thim  a  good  mile  o'  ground. 


MISS  HONOR'S  WEDDING  165 

But  Miss  Honor,  as  still  and  as  quiet  she  turned 

back  be  the  way  that  she  came, 
Down  the  aisle,  past  the  pews  wid  the  people  set 

starin'  in  rows  just  the  same  ; 
An'  right  out  to  the  shine  o'  the  sun,  that  should 

never  ha'  lit  on  her  head 
Till  she  walked  wid  a  ring  on  her  hand,  an'  the 

girls  sthrewin'  flowers  where  she  'd  thread. 
So  she  passed  thro'  the  yard,  where  the  folk  all 

kep'  whisht  as  the  dead  in  their  graves, 
Not  a  sound  in  the  world  save  the  flutther  o'  win' 

thro'  the  ever-green  laves, 
An'  a  lark  somewhere  singin'  like  wild  up  above 

in  the  high  light  alone  ; 
Till  the  carriage  dhruv  off  from  the  gate,  an'  we 

heard  the  wheels  grate  on  the  stone. 
Thin  ould  Molly  O'Rourke,  that  stood  by  wid  her 

head  in  her  raggety  cloak  : 
'  Now,  the  Saints  may  purtect  her,'  sez  she, '  for 

the  heart  of  the  crathur  is  broke.' 


166  MISS  HONOR'S  WEDDING 


An'  sure  maybe  ould  Molly  was  right ;  I  dunno, 

for  they  tuk  her  away, 
To  disthract  of  her  mind,  so  they  said,  to  some 

counthries  far  over  the  say  ; 
Some  most  curious  onnathural  place,  where  I  'm 

tould  the  sun 's  scorchin'  an'  hot 
All  the  year,  an'  the  people  is  mostly  ould  nay- 

gurs  as  black  as  the  pot, 
An'  a  sthrame  thro'  it  full  o'  thim  bastes  o'  great 

reptiles  that  swally  ye  whole, 
Wid  the  desolit  deserts  around,  where  ye '11  see 

ne'er  the  sight  of  a  soul ; 
Worser  land  than  the  blackest  o'  bogs,  just  as 

bare  as  the  palm  o'  your  hand, 
Savin'  whiles  barbarocious  big  imiges  stuck  in  the 

midst  o'  the  sand, 


MISS  HONOR'S  WEDDING  167 

An'  gazabos  o'  stones  stuffed  wid  bones  of  the 

hayjus  ould  haythins  inside — 
Ay,  in  Aygypt — belike  that 's  the  name.    But,  at 

all  evints,  there  she  died. 


XI 

Yis,  she  died,  sir ;  an'  there  she  was  buried,  she 

never  set  fut  here  agin  ; 
An'  it 's  nought  but  the  truth  that  her  like  I  Ve 

not  looked  on  afore  her  or  sin'. 
An'  bad  luck,  thin,  to  thim  that  'ud  harm  her.     A 

pity — a  pity,  bedad, 
If  ye  come  to  considher  the  pleasure  in  life  she  'd 

a  right  to  ha'  had. 
Tis  the  same  as  a  rose-bud  that 's  torn  whin  its 

red's  just  the  brightest  to  see ; 
Or  a  linnet  shot  dead  twitterin'  soft  be  its  bit  of  a 

nest  in  the  tree — 


i68  MISS  HONOR'S  WEDDING 

So,  in  spring,  whin  the  hedges   is   greenin',  an' 

cuckoos  beginnin'  to  call, 
Poor  Miss  Honor  I  mind,  an'  her  weddin',  that 

was  never  a  weddin'  at  all. 


A   CURLEW'S   CALL 


A  CURLEW'S  CALL 


WHETHEN  is  it  yourself,  Mister  Hagan?   an' 

lookin'  right  hearty  you  are ; 
Tis  a  thrate  to  behold  you  agin.    You  '11  be  waitin' 

to  take  the  long  car 
For  Kilmoyna,  the  same  as  meself,  sir  ?     They  're 

late  at  the  cross-roads  to-night, 
For  I  mind  when  the  days  'ud  be  long,  they  'd  be 

here  ere  the  droop  of  the  light, 
Yet  out  yonder  far  over  the  bog  there 's  the  sunset 

beginnin'  to  burn 
Like  the  red  of  a  camp-fire  raked  low,  and  no  sign 

of  thim  roundin'  the  turn. 

m 


172  A  CURLEW'S  CALL 

So  the  dark  '11  git  ahead  of  us  home  on  this  jaunt ; 

we  Ve  good  ten  mile  to  go, 
And  thin  afther  the  rain-pours  this  mornin',  we  're 

apt  to  be  draggin'  an'  slow — 
Ay,  you  're  right,  sir :  alongside  the  road  I  Ve  been 

thravellin'  you  'd  scarce  count  that  far  ; 
You  '11  cross  dark  an'  light  times  and  agin  between 

Creggan  and  Kandahar. 


II 

And  is  Norah  along  wid  you  ?     Well,  Norah 

jewel,  how 's  yourself  all  this  year  ? 
Sure  she's  thin  grown  and  white,  sir,  to  what  I 

remember  her  last  time  we  were  here. 
Took  a  could  in  the  spring  ?     Ah,  begorrah,  the 

March  win'  's  as  bad  as  a  blight ; 
But  the  weather  we  git   in  Afghanistan,   troth, 

'twould  destroy  her  outright. 


A  CURLEW'S  CALL  173 

For  in  summer  Ould  Horny  seems  houldin'  the 

earth  in  the  heat  of  his  hand, 
And  in  winther  the  snow 's  the  great  ghost  of  a 

world  settled  down  on  the  land, 
Wid  a  blast  keenin'  over  it  fit  to  be  freezin'  the 

sun  where  he  shone  ; 
If  they  'd  lease  you  that  counthry  rint-free,  you  'd 

do  righter  to  let  it  alone. 


Ill 

Glad  enough  to  be  out  of  it  ?     Well,  in  a  way, 

but  I  've  this  on  me  mind, 
That  I'm  come  like  the  winther's  worst  day,  after 

lavin'  me  betthers  behind  ; 
An'  the  nearer  I  git  to  the  ould  place  at  home,  it 's 

the  stranger  I  seem, 
Missin'  thim   I'll  behold  there  no  more  till  me 

furlough  I  take  in  a  dream. 


174  A  CURLEW'S  CALL 

But  the  divil  a  dream  's  in  it  now,  and  I  'd  liefer 

dream  ugly  than  think 
What  Jack  Connolly's  folk  'ill  remember  whinever 

they  notice  the  blink 
Of  me  coat  past  their  hedge,  and  I  goin'  their 

road.     Jack's  poor  mother  belike 
'111  be  feedin'  her  hins  in  the  door,  or  else  gath'rin' 

her  clothes  at  the  dyke, 
And  it 's  down  to  the  gate  she  '11  be  runnin'  and 

callin',  an'  biddin'  me  step  in  ; 
And  she  '11  say  to  me  :  '  Well,  Dan,  you  're  home, 

and  I  'm  glad,  sure,  to  see  you  agin.' 
Quare  an'  glad,  I  '11  be  bound,  wid  the  thought  in 

her  heart  of  how  long  she  might  wait, 
Ere  she  'd   see  her  own  slip  of  a  redcoat  come 

route-marchin'  in  at  her  gate  ; 
He  that 's  campin'  apart  from  us,  joined  wid  the 

throop  who  shift  quarters  no  more ; 
Crep'  in  under  the  tent  that 's  wide  worlds  beyond 

call,  tho'  'twas  pitched  at  your  door. 


A  CURLEW'S  CALL  175 

Ah,  the  crathur  :  'tis  poor  bits  of  hope  folk  take  up 

wid  whin  luck  's  turnin'  bad. 
She  that  not  so  long  since  'ud  be  thinkin'  she  'd 

soon  git  a  sight  of  the  lad, 
There  she  '11  stand  wid  her  eyes  on  me  face,  till  I 

see  all  as  plain  's  if  I  heard 
How  she  's  wond'rin',  an'  dhreadin'  to  ask,  have  I 

brought  her  so  much  as  a  word. 
That's  the  notion's  come  home  wid  me;  faix,  I 

get  thinkin'  it  every  odd  while, 
Maybe  oft  as  a  lamed  horse  shrinks  his  fut  in  the 

lenth  of  a  stony  mile. 
You  '11  remember  Jack  Connolly,  sir  ?    Ay  for  sure, 

'tis  good  neighbours  you  've  been 
Since  he  wasn't  the  height  of  your  stick,  and 

meself  but  a  bit  of  spalpeen. 
Great  the  pair  of  us  both  were  ;  out  most  whiles 

off  over  the  bog  and  away, 
But  the  end  of  it  happint  us  yonder  at  sunset  last 

Pathrick's  Day. 


176  A  CURLEW'S  CALL 


IV 

The  way  of  it  ?     Our  picket  was  ridin'  in  be  the 

wall  of  the  little  white  town, 
That 's  stuck  like  a  blaiched  wasps'  nest  in  the  gap 

where  the  ridge  of  the  hills  breaks  down, 
And  the  big  flat  plain  spreads  out  and  about,  you 

might  say  'twas  a  bog  gone  dhry, 
Lookin'  nathural  enough  till  you  notice,  pricked 

up  'gin  the  light  in  the  sky, 
Their  two  thin  towers,  like  an  ould  snail's  horns  be 

the  shell  of  their  hay  thin  dome, 
Peerin'  out  of  a  purpose  to  put  you  in  mind  where 

you  Ve  thravelled  from  home. 
We  were  ridin'  too  close  ;  I  remember  along  on  the 

white  of  the  wall 
The  front  men's  helmets  went  bob,  bob,  bob,  in 

blue  shadow,  sthretched  won'erful  tall, 


A  CURLEW'S  CALL  177 

For  the  sunbames  were  raichin'  their  furthest  aslant 

from  the  edge  of  the  day, 
Where  the  light  ran,  dhrained  over  the  earth,  like 

a  wave  turnin'  back  to  the  say, 
All  hot  gold.       Howane'er,  when  we  past  where 

their  straight-archin'  door  opened  black, 
Wid   the  dust-thracks   they  thramp  into    roads 

glamin'  in  at  it,  off  went  a  crack, 
And  ere  ever  an  echo  got  rappin'  the  hills,  or  the 

smoke  riz  to  float, 
Twas  a  plunge,  and  a  thud,  and  Jack  Connolly 

down  wid  him,  shot  in  the  throat. 


So  be  raison  of  we  two  bein'  neighbours,  they 

bid  me  mind  Jack  while  they  went 
To  make  out  what  the   mischief  at  all  the  rap- 
scallion that  potted  him  meant ; 

M 


178  A  CURLEW'S  CALL 

Some  ould  objic'  wisped  up  in  his  rags  head  and 

fut,  the  crow's  notice  to  quit, 
Wid  a  quare  carabine  Jud  scarce  fright  e'er  a  bird 

who  'd  a  scrumption  of  wit. 
But  'twas  able  enough  for  that  job,  and  be  hanged 

to  it ;  Jack's  business  was  done, 
As  you  couldn't  misdoubt.     All  the  west  swam 

clear  fire  round  the  smooth,  redhot  sun, 
Dropped  down  steady  as  a  shell  thro'  still  wather, 

but  'twouldn't  be  sunk  out  of  sight, 
Ere  the  lad  had  got  finished  wid  dyin',  and  gone 

beyond  darkness  and  light. 
And  between  whiles  'twas  divil  a  much  could  I  do 

to  be  helpin'  him  ;  just 
Keep  beside  him,  and  dhrive  the  black  fly -buzz,  and 

lift  up  his  head  from  the  dust, 
And  hear  tell  had  he  aught  in  his  mind.     But,  och 

man,  if  his  heart  was  to  break, 
Every  whisper  of  voice  he  had  in  him  was  kilt,  not 

a  word  could  he  spake. 


A  CURLEW'S  CALL  I79 

Sure  now  that  was  conthrary.     An  instant  before 

'twas  no  odds  what  he  said, 
And  he'd  laughed,  and  he'd  gabbed  on  galore, 

any  blathers  come  into  his  head  ; 
But  wid  on'y  a  minit  to  hold  all  his  speech  in  for 

ever  and  a  day, 
Just  one  breath  of  a  word  like  a  hand  raichin' 

worlds'  worlds  an'  years'  years  away, 
Tis  sthruck  dumb  he  was,  same  as  his  crathur  of  a 

baste  that  stood  watchin'  us  there, 
Wid  big  eyes  shinin'  fright,  and  snuff-snuffin'  the 

throuble  up  out  of  the  air. 


VI 

'Twas  a  throuble  swep'  nearer,  an'  blacker,  an' 

surer ;  the  whole  world  stood  still ; 
You  'd  as  aisy  turn  back  a  cloud's  shadow,  that 's 
tuk  to  slide  over  a  hill. 


i8o  A  CURLEW'S  CALL 

There  was  Jack  wid  the  life  failin'  out  of  him  fast 

as  the  light  from  the  sky, 
That  came  fingerin'  the  grass  wid  long  rays,  blade 

be  blade,  an'  thin  twinklin'  up  high 
On  the  gold  spark  atop  their  green  dome.     And 

I  thought  to  meself  how  the  same 
Blamed  ould  sunset  'ud  thrapese  away  to  the  west 

till  the  shine  of  it  came, 
Flarin'  red  in  the  bog-houles,  an'  bright  past  the 

turf-stacks,  and  in  at  the  door 
Of  the  little  ould  place  down  the  lonin',  that  Jack 

'ud  set  fut  in  no  more, 
And  'twould  dance  on  their  bits  of  gilt  jugs,  till 

they  glittered  like  stars  in  a  row, 
And  the  people  widin  at  their  suppers  ne'er  thinkin' 

no  great  while  ago 
It  was  dazzlin'  Jack's  eyes  as  he  looked  for  me 

face  wid  the  last  of  his  sight. 
And  sez  I  to  him, '  What  is  it,  lad  ? '    but  I  knew 

I  might  listen  all  night 


A  CURLEW'S  CALL  181 

And  no  answer ;  the  sorra  a  chance  to  be  bringin' 

thim  word  we  'd  ha'  found, 
On'y  Jack  had  more  sinse  in  him  yet  than  meself 

that  was  hearty  and  sound  ; 
For  he  looked  towards  the  rim  of  the  west  wid  the 

sun  hangin'  ready  to  fall, 
And  he  whistled  two  notes  quick  and  low — well  I 

knew  it :  the  curlew's  call. 


VII 

I  'd  not  aisy  mistake  it ;  sure  out  on  these  bogs 

scarce  a  minit  goes  by, 
But  anear  or  afar  on  the  win*  comes  a  flicker  of 

the  crathur's  cry — 
Faith,  I  heard  wan  just  thin — and  on  many  a  day, 

ere  the  sun  'ud  be  up, 
And  around  and  around  stood  the  grey  of  the  air 

like  a  big  empty  cup 
M2 


1 82  A  CURLEW'S  CALL 

Fit  to  hold  every  sound  ever  stirred,  and  to  catch 
all  the  light  ever  shone, 

I  'd  be  out  wid  me  on  to  our  bogland,  all  desolit 
lyin',  and  lone 

As  the  say  whin  you  Ve  watched  the  low  shore  till 
it  dips  where  the  ridges  rowl  green, 

And  I  'd  spy  was  there  e'er  a  wan  out,  and  belike 
not  a  sowl  to  be  seen 

Save  Jack  whistlin'  away  to  me  down  be  the  lough  ; 
you  'd  ha'  swore  'twas  the  bird, 

Barrin'  just  the  laste  differ  ;  Jack  done  it  the  likest 
that  ever  I  heard. 

And  there 's  plenty  that  thry  at  it.  Seldom  a  sun- 
sit  throops  out  of  the  west 

But  some  lad  '11  be  whistlin'  his  sweetheart,  that 's 
sittin'  and  listenin'  her  best, 

While  the  corners  grow  dark,  and  she 's  reckonin' 
the  shadows  for  'fraid  he  might  fail. 

So  his  call  lit  the  world  like  a  star.  Ne'er  a  sweet- 
heart had  Jack,  I  '11  go  bail, 


A  CURLEW'S  CALL  183 

For  the  truth  is  his  mind  was  tuk  up  wid  his  own 

folk ;  it  couldn't  be  tould 
The  opinion  he  had  and  consait  of  the  whole  of 

thim,  young  wans  and  ould, 
And  it 's  there  where  I  'm  bothered  entirely  to  think 

how  he  got  the  idee 
To  go  soldierin'  off  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  wid 

no  comrade  but  me. 
Howanever,  he  went  of  a  suddint,  afore  we  knew 

right  what  was  on  ; 
And  I  thought  to  meself  the  ould  place  'ud  be 

quare  wid  Jack  Connolly  gone, 
So  I  up  and  I  down  to  the  barracks  below,  an'  the 

shillin'  I  tuk— 
That 's  the  way  it  fell  out,  and  belike  'twas  himself 

had  the  best  of  the  luck. 


1 84  A  CURLEW'S  CALL 


VIII 

And  continted  and  aisy  he  went,  wanst  he  saw 

he  'd  made  shift  to  conthrive 
That  the  message  he  had  in  his  mind  'ud  go  safe. 

For  sez  I  :  '  Man  alive, 
I  '11  be  tellin'  your  people  at  home  the  first  chance 

I  can  git,  good  or  bad, 
How  thimselves,  and  the  ould  place  you  quit,  was 

the  last  thought  that  ever  you  had  ; 
And  I  '11  bid  thim  be  thinkin'  of  you,  whin  they 

hear  the  bird  cry  on  our  bog. 
Your  poor  mother,  an'  father,  an'  the  childher,  an' 

their  little  ould  rogue  of  a  dog, 
Ne'er  a  wan  you  're  forgettin','  sez  I  ;  and  bedad 

any  fool  might  ha'  known, 
For  the  manin'  he  meant  wid  his  call  was  as  clear 

as  a  bugle  blown. 


A  CURLEW'S  CALL  185 

And  our  rifles  wint  crack  be  the  gateway,  and  now 

and  agin  wid  a  plop 
Come  a  bullet  dhruv  deep  in  the  sand — 'twas  the 

divil  dhrill-sowin'  his  crop — 
And  a  priest  legged  it  up  to  the  top  of  the  tower, 

and  stood  risin'  a  yell 
For  the  rest  to  be  sayin'  their  prayers,  like  as  if 

'twas  our  angely  bell. 
But  it 's  little  Jack  heeded  ;  for  sure  his  own  folk, 

and  th'  ould  counthry,  and  all 
Were  come  nearer  than   near,  and  gone  further 

than  far,  along  wid  that  curlew's  call. 


IX 

Ah,  but  Norah,  you  're  perished  an'  thrimblin' 

wid  could,  sittin'  here  in  the  win' ; 
Did  you  bring  ne'er  a  wrap  to  rowl  round  you, 
machree,  now  the  night 's  closin'  in  ? 


1 86  A  CURLEW'S  CALL 

For  there 's  mists  curlin'  white  on  the  pools,  and 

the  air  gits  an  edge  whin  they  lift 
Ay,  the  moon 's  up,  just  on'y  a  breath  'gin  the 

blue,  where  the  cloud  comes  adrift, 
Sthreelin'  by  like  a  haystack  on  fire,  wid  the  flame 

blowin'  off  be  the  way 
In  bright  bundles  and  wisps,  as  if  some  wan  'ud 

harvest  the  light  of  the  day. 
Tisn't  that  fashion  dark  falls,  out  there  in  the  aist. 

Wanst  the  sun  goes  on  lave, 
Ne'er  a  thrace  of  a  glame  bides  to  show  where  he 

passed,  like  the  foam  of  a  wave  ; 
He  '11  be  blazin'  wan  minit,  and  thin  'tis  the  same 

as  if  somebody  shut 
A  black  door  on  the  blink  of  a  hearth,  or  kicked 

over  a  lamp  wid  his  fut 
So  the  rest  of  us  rode  thro'  a  night  blindin'  dark, 

till  we'd  half  the  plain  crossed, 
And  the  moon  riz  ice-clear,  wid  a  shine  lyin'  thick 

on  the  grass  as  hoar-frost, 


A  CURLEW'S  CALL  187 

You  could  gather  up.     And,  troth,  if  our  tongues 

had  froze  stiff,  'tis  as  much  we  'd  ha'  said, 
Wid   Jack    Connolly's    baste  saddle-empty,  and 

jerkin'  the  reins  as  I  led. 
Sure  poor  Jack  had  a  dale  of  good-nature  ;   he  'd 

fooled  the  ould  mare  all  he  could, 
And  the  crathur  went  slow-fut  and  heavy;  you 

might  think  that  she  understood. 


Printed  by  T.  and  A.  CONSTABLE,  Printers  to  Her  Majesty, 
at  the  Edinburgh  University  Press. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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